The Bittersweet Taste of Insanity
by walkamongstthestars
Summary: Warnings: Future foci: drugs, hallucinations, torture, possible self-injury, and sex. Sherlock's come back after the Fall, and is slowly re-establishing himself as a consulting detective. But this new case may be too overwhelming even for Sherlock Holmes
1. Chapter 1

**John struggled against Sherlock's grip, trying to hold him still as he writhed and screamed. His sobs were soaking through John's shirt, his sweat and blood covered John's hands and chest. John was holding him tight, cradling his head between the crook of his arm and his shoulder, telling Sherlock over and over, **_**I'm sorry Sherlock, I'm so sorry. It'll be ok, just hang on. God, Sherlock please, it's alright, just try to breathe**_**. The light blazed against their eyes and John tried to cover Sherlock's face, but he just **_**kept writhing**_** and John kept losing his grip on the long body. Sherlock would whimper John's name, and the whimper would become a garbled statement, and then a strangled scream. Then the sobbing. Then the nonsense. John would just say, **_**I know, I know, Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I can't fix this, just hold on, it'll be okay**_**. And the blood was running down Sherlock's temple, and the sweat was coating John's arms as he held Sherlock, as the seconds turned into minutes and the minutes turned into hours, while they felt like days. **_**Come on, Greg**_**, John thought, **_**where the fuck are you**_**. **

"This is tedious," Sherlock said between his little yelps of pain. John shot him a glance as he continued to stitch up the gash going across Sherlock's ribs. It was about six inches long, probably a quarter of an inch deep.

"Well, perhaps if somebody hadn't decided to devise an experiment involving a weight drop with a knife ready to launch through a part of a cadaver, you wouldn't be sitting here and I wouldn't be fighting you- _ow, _Sherlock, don't bite the hand that heals you, dammit," John rubbed the spot on his shin Sherlock had just kicked. _That'll bruise, you git_. Sherlock smirked. John didn't understand why he was always the one stitching Sherlock up, but then he supposed he enjoyed it. Taking care of Sherlock. It made him feel needed. It was the one area Sherlock couldn't beat him in. Aside from general social norms.

"What else I am supposed to do with my time, John? I haven't had a case in _weeks_. You've been blogging about the latest episodes of that dreadful talk show you watch. You must be feeling the same pain as I," Sherlock grimaced and flinched against the last stitch.

"You could do what normal people do, Sherlock. Read a book. Watch some telly. Drink tea. Go for a walk. Things that make life just a little less exciting, and a lot safer," John snipped off the end of the suture and went for the wrappings. Sherlock protested, but John pressed on the wound and Sherlock groaned, falling back in his chair.

"I don't want a dressing, John," Sherlock squirmed.

"You might get infected if this isn't properly cover- _hold still you great idiot_ - no, don't do-" John fell back as Sherlock swatted at his arm and pulled his legs up to cover his chest, kneeing John in the abdomen and sending him backward.

John glared at Sherlock as he stood up. "Fine, then. If you go septic I'm not going to cry," John threw the wrapping back into his medical kit. Sherlock cocked his head to the side a little.

"You would cry normally if I got ill?" Sherlock's eyes glinted with mischief. John looked annoyed. He walked right into that one. Of course this was the one time Sherlock would actually listen and point out all the embarrassing remarks John made in attempt to show his frustration.

"I just mean I won't give a damn because it'll be your own fault, oh-fu" John had straightened up after zipping up his medical kit to find Sherlock an inch from his face. It startled John and he gasped, looking down.

"John, I need to _do_ something. I am _so _bored. And you know what happens when I get bored," Sherlock said, snapping.

John licked his lips and hung his head, sighing. He managed to have the most interesting and most absolutely impossible flatmate.

"Look, Lestrade will phone if something comes up. You'll just have to wait it out like the rest of us boring people do," John stated, bundling up his bag and taking it to the toilet. He heard Sherlock let out the most obvious sigh of annoyance as he flopped onto the couch.

They spent a few hours sitting around, reading, Sherlock every so often sighing deliberately loud enough to get to John. John rolled his eyes every time. For once, he was sort of hoping for a really brutal murder. Would be terrible for the victim, but good for his own sanity.

About three hours later, at 7 in the evening, Sherlock's phone dinged. It took him exactly 1 second to answer the call.

John watched, eyebrows raised, as Sherlock hummed and said, _"_Yes, yes, alright, great, we'll be right there," and jumped up and down on the couch in glee.

"Wouldn't have happened to get a case, would you?" John said, almost satisfied with the timing. It was early enough that they could potentially solve it in a few hours, and John had only had to suffer through a few hours of Sherlock's whining.

"There was a double homicide. In a warehouse, by the Thames. Get your coat," Sherlock was already striding out the door, tying his scarf. John barely had time to slide his shoes on before Sherlock called out impatiently. John hopped on one foot across the room and then slid his coat on as he ran downstairs.

* * *

"Sherlock, thanks for coming. John," Lestrade nodded at them both. The warehouse was huge, with vaulted ceilings that only let tiny flecks of moonlight filter through. There were large square pillars extending from the roof to the ground, dotted throughout the expanse of the building. The Yard had set up lights next to the scene.

"A couple of youths were getting ready to graffiti the place when they saw the bodies," Lestrade pointed to two cadavers that were tied opposite to each other, one tied to a pillar, the other to what seemed to be a large container used on commercial transport ships. John grimaced. He may like the danger, but he still always had to adjust to the sight of bodies. No one but Sherlock could ever turn off that impulse.

Sherlock strode to the bodies, walking around them in a circle a few times. John watched, bewildered. Sherlock then stopped suddenly, and knelt in front of the body tied to the box. It was a woman, early thirties, blonde, with a pink shirt soaked through with blood. Sherlock observed the wound on her abdomen, the trails of blood on her shoulders going down her arms, the smears on her face and in her hair. These were brutal murders. Premeditated.

Sherlock beckoned in John's general direction, not bothering to look up. John walked over and knelt next to him, flinching slightly at how cut up the woman was.

"What do you think, John? Was it the wound?" Sherlock gestured toward the deep stab. John took gloves from Lestrade and put them on, and then lifted the woman's shirt to observe. It was deep, and it seemed that the murderer had actually shifted the knife around in her stomach before pulling it out. John slightly poked at the wound, but there was no fresh blood coming from the majorly injured organs.

"The wound is probably about 24 to 36 hours old," John touched the various cuts on the woman's shoulders and noticed how they were already forming scabs.

"The cuts are a few days old. I don't think she died from this," John then noticed a dark mark peeking out from behind the collar of the woman's shirt. The shirt was a scoop neck, so it revealed a lot of her chest. John gingerly peeled back the shirt and he closed his eyes, shaking his head.

"She was electrocuted repeatedly. There are burn marks on her chest. That's what killed her. The murderer must have been torturing her," John replaced the shirt and stood. Sherlock looked at the woman, puzzled. John never really saw him puzzled. What was going on?

Sherlock stood and motioned to the other body. This one was tied to the pillar. John immediately noticed the same markings on his body, accompanied by stabs in his thighs and one on his shoulder, not just the cuts this time. John lifted the man's white shirt and observed the same pattern of gouging in the abdomen. All of the wounds were the same age, same pattern. He asked Lestrade for a knife, and then cut the pants were the holes were. He poked at the holes in the man's legs a bit.

"Judging by the lacerations, I'd say this time he drew the knife out and drove it in a couple of times," John swallowed and examined the man more thoroughly. What kind of MO was this?

Sherlock lifted various limbs, combed back the man's sandy blond hair, observed fingernails through his magnifying glass and finally stood up.

John counted to three, and Sherlock started talking.

"They are siblings. The woman is in her early thirties, the man is a few years older than her," he dove into their pockets but all he found was a pen in the man's left jean pocket. Too easy.

"He is a runner. He also recently got promoted at his job in the development department of a software designer. Judging from the pen, he designs business programs. He also has a dog and a parakeet, as evidence from the hairs embedded in his shirt and the talon markings on his fingers. He rents a flat near his work. He doesn't go running in town, though, only by the water," Sherlock nodded toward the woman, "she's a smoker and an alcoholic, and, see the chalk there under her nails, she got sacked the other day from her job as a primary school teacher. She developed anxiety from being sacked, so no one will hire her. She needs a new prescription for reading glasses but can't afford them. She's been staying over at a friend's house a lot, probably another teacher, who has a pet cat," John looked befuddled. "The woman has a cat?" Sherlock was stopped mid speech, "what, John?" he said, annoyed.

"How would you know she has a cat?" John looked at the woman. "John, do keep up. She's allergic to cats but her friend has one, and she can't go anywhere else so she has to put up with the allergies. Just look at her eyes, bloodshot, her nose is red around the corners and cracked from rubbing it with tissue," Sherlock sighed and looked to Lestrade.

"I'd find out which primary school teachers recently got made redundant that fit her profile. The man would have participated in a marathon run, and his business probably funded it," Sherlock squinted at Lestrade, who was giving him his usual look of confusion, so Sherlock elaborated. "His shoes. They are running shoes, and a brand new model, but already the treads are quite worn down," Sherlock stopped and looked at the box. He narrowed his eyes and moved toward it.

Everyone watched as he paced around the box, bringing his magnifier to corners and dents every now and then.

"Have you got something to open this with?" Sherlock held out a hand toward Lestrade. Lestrade raised an eyebrow and rolled his eyes.

"It's bloody titanium, Sherlock. We have to get tech in to break the lever in the back and unhinge it," he pointed to the door on the box. It was about 5 feet tall by 5 feet wide, silver and cold looking. John didn't like it.

Sherlock whined. "Well there has to be a reason for it to be here," he tapped on it. It didn't seem hollow.

"Maybe it was left here by accident by whatever lot used this building last to store their cargo. You'd need a pretty good pulley system to lift it," Lestrade's phone went off and he walked a few feet away to answer.

John followed Sherlock's eyes on the box. Sherlock kept rapping it in different places, trying to determine what was inside.

"Unless you have echolocation, that won't help," John said, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock. Sherlock snorted, "I listen, I observe, I deduce. _Try_ to think, John," Sherlock said in a bored tone. John sighed and watched him.

Lestrade came back, shutting his phone, and nodded to Sherlock, even though he wasn't paying attention to the DI. "I just got the Yard to run some searches, they've found a school that just sacked a woman who fits the vic's description. The headmaster has agreed to meet us in her office. Do you want to come?" Lestrade raised his eyebrows at Sherlock and his glance darted from John's puzzled expression at the box to Sherlock's equally confused look. They were all obvious quite nervous about the titanium crate.

"I don't do interviews, you know this. John, go if you want. Bring me information," Sherlock brushed everything off with his hand. John sighed, with the look on his face of a man who is quite used to this. Lestrade gave him a sympathetic look, but John nodded.

"Great, Sherlock I'm sure you'd like more time on the scene but the techs are almost here. They may need a while though. And they'll have to search by the water for evidence. If you aren't going to come, why don't you do some of that lovely inspecting with them?" Lestrade was obviously running out of patience. Sherlock looked up at him and gave him an irritated look.

"Alright, alright. If you're just going to send me out like a sniffer dog, I'll come along," Sherlock huffed. Lestrade had to suppress a bit of a smile. John knew the only reason Sherlock was agreeing to coming along was to avoid Anderson. Lestrade didn't even have to mention his name.

* * *

The office they sat in was standard for a school. It was a bit small, with the token brown desk and old computer. There was nothing extraordinary about the place, but the headmaster seemed rather uptight about it all. She probably wanted to be working in a more prestigious, private university. Instead, she was the head of a school losing funding and incurring absences. But you take what you can get.

"Thank you for speaking with us on such short notice, ma'am," Lestrade shook the woman's hand.

"Of course. I'm Ella Greene. They told me you wanted information on one of our recent redundant?" Ella said, poking her hand into a file cabinet. She was an upright woman, her chestnut hair gathered back into a tight bun, her lips a thin line decorated with dark red lipstick. She was wearing a very formal suit, and oddly enough it was a pantsuit. She was very pretty for her age. She must have been 50.

"Yes, well, we are investigating the murders of two individuals. One of them is a blonde woman in her early 30s," Lestrade got out his notepad to begin reciting what Sherlock had said, but Sherlock took over for that part.

With a bored expression, Sherlock recalled about the alcoholism and the anxiety. He said it quickly and deliberately in the amount of time it took Lestrade to flip through five pages of his notes and take a breath. John watched him with his usual look of astonishment. After living with the man for over a year, one would think John Watson was no longer awestruck by it all. But that was what solidified his friendship with Sherlock. _Friendship_. That was an odd word for a relationship with Sherlock.

Ella looked at Sherlock with a bit of apprehension, drawing her hand back from the cabinet, feeling perhaps upstaged by his elegance and arrogant attitude. John felt even more plain than usual between the two of them, and he tried to sit very upright, remembering his army form.

When Sherlock had closed his mouth finally, Ella licked her lips and looked down for a moment.

"Yes. That was Mandy. Mandy Weiss. She has been… unstable for a while. We unfortunately had to let her go after she came to work completely intoxicated three days in a row. She was struggling with some inner demons, and we tried to find her some help. But we are not responsible for her anymore," Ella was composed, her face numb to the situation. _What a brilliant disguise against guilt_, John thought.

"We're not blaming you, Mrs. Greene," Lestrade scribbled a note onto his pad and opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by a rather hurried Sherlock.

"Oh for god's sake. Let me guess, she came to you asking to go on leave to start recovery, but you rejected her request. You threatened to fire her if she didn't clean up her act and did nothing to actually reach out. She's been an alcoholic for a long time, and you did nothing to help her," he rolled his eyes, a look of disgust settled on his face. John looked at him out of the corner of his eye and furrowed his brow. _Sherlock didn't usually get emotional about victims_, John contemplated. And then he realized. _Oh_. Addictions.

"Excuse me? We are very supportive of our staff members, but we do not tolerate any misbehavior. Our actions were for the safety of the children and the rest of the teachers," Ella's voice was laced with resent.

"Oh, yes, because a woman who runs a primary school filled with future delinquents and scandals would obviously have had patience with one of its own teachers. You were ashamed and you fired her to save face for the school," Sherlock looked at her through cold eyes. John was tempted to put a hand on his shoulder, but he knew how wired up Sherlock was. He didn't want to set him off too far.

"I think you had better leave now," Ella stood up stock straight. Lestrade glared at Sherlock, before politely asking Ella for any contact information to get to Mandy's family. Ella obliged and curtly nodded to the door when they were done.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. You nearly botched that up," Lestrade stopped Sherlock in the hallway and held him by the shoulder. "Are you alright?" Sherlock simply set his jaw. John gave Lestrade a look of _not now,_ and Lestrade sighed, waving them off. As John and Sherlock hailed a cab outside, John nodded at Sherlock, "Alright, then?" Sherlock grunted a reply, settling into the cab and staring out the window. It was going to be a much longer case than John had wanted.


	2. The Game Is On

**Chapter 2: THE GAME IS ON**

**NOTE: I should've mentioned this before, but this is post-Reichenbach, after the reunion. In this universe, Sherlock came back after two years and John helped to clear Sherlock's name. At this point, it has been 2 months since Sherlock returned, and the Yard was still hesitant about letting them in on cases. I know it wasn't mentioned in the first chapter but Lestrade usually has to fight the Chief Superintendent to invite Sherlock to a scene, although essentially he often lies to the Chief. But in this chapter we will see more of the tension between Sherlock/John and the Yarders. I apologize for the slight lack of continuity, I originally wrote some scenes out of order and I wanted to keep the original dialogue, but then I sort of forgot that I emphasized later in the story about Sherlock having gotten back recently. Yeah. Feel free to throw things at me. If anyone really has a problem I will edit the first chapter. -hides-**

The next morning, John came down to find Sherlock curled up on the couch, clutching something. It looked like paper. Sherlock was actually asleep, and his hand was covering any identifiable aspects of the scrap. John decided it was best to let him sleep, as he had probably been up all night. He quietly made himself some tea and toast, settling in at his computer, ready to start typing up their current case. Sherlock shifted and mumbled something. John watched him cautiously. He went back to his hen-pecking until Sherlock finally twisted onto his back and simply said, "tea". John squinted at him and decided to just get him the tea. It was too early to argue with a cranky Sherlock.

As John walked over to Sherlock with the tea, Sherlock's eyes still closed, he noticed the piece of paper in Sherlock's hand was actually a picture. It was fairly worn and hard to make out from the angle he was looking at, but he could see a face; a man's face. He stared at it until Sherlock snapped, "just leave it on the floor, John. For god's sake, don't just stand there," John startled a little, not realizing he was hovering, and cleared his throat. He wanted to ask who was in the picture, but he had a nagging sense he shouldn't. Sherlock must have read his mind because he slipped the tiny portrait into his dressing gown pocket without a word. John rolled his eyes and set the mug down, returning to his blog.

After he had managed to slowly type out the preliminary case information, wondering to himself why Lestrade hadn't called yet, Sherlock stood swiftly, picking up the mug and standing by the window. John licked his lips. _Damn it, Sherlock_, _talk to me_.

"Lestrade hasn't phoned," Sherlock stated. John blinked and nodded, even though Sherlock wasn't looking at him. Sherlock huffed and continued to stare out the window for a few minutes, before John got up to take his dishes into the kitchen. Sherlock strode in front of him and stopped an inch from his face, staring intensely into his eyes. John stared back, expressionless, used to this sort of thing by now.

"I don't understand," Sherlock said, searching John's face for something. John furrowed his brow.

"You don't understand about what?" he contemplated Sherlock's hard gaze.

"The titanium crate, John," Sherlock said impatiently. John sucked in his breath.

"Well, I suspect Lestrade got the crate open somehow and will phone us when he knows what is inside…it.." Sherlock was standing almost nose-to-nose in front of John, breathing on his face. John tracked his eyes, offering, "have you figured out why both siblings were there?" John tried not to flinch as Sherlock rolled his eyes and breathed hot air his face.

"Well, of course, John. I thought that was obvious," and then, cutting himself off, Sherlock's expression changed from one of annoyance to a softer one, a sadder one. John shifted his weight a little, unsure what to say.

"So, humor the idiot in the room, then?" John looked at him kindly, hoping for anything from Sherlock. He knew about Sherlock's moods but this one was odder than normal.

"You're not an idiot," Sherlock responded quietly and looked over John's shoulder, walking to the couch and plopping down on it with a flourish of his gown. "We know Mandy was an alcoholic, which probably meant she was not in good graces with her brother. It's plausible that they were having a row and that was when the killer captured them," Sherlock spoke without the usual air of arrogance.

"So, it was just chance, then?" John sat down in his armchair.

"It's possible. I need more information. Bug Lestrade," Sherlock then turned over to face the back of the couch and grew silent. John sat still for a minute before getting his phone and dialing.

"Lestrade," the DI answered the phone on the second ring.

"Hi, Greg, it's John, have you got any news?"

"Sorry, John, it's been a bit hectic here. We found four more bodies with the exact same wounds. I was going to call you soon but the chief wants a meeting, on account of it possibly being serial," Lestrade sounded exhausted and rushed. John swallowed hard.

"Jesus. Well, Sherlock's getting a _bit_ restless. Might we come down and go over it?" John didn't want to plead, but he felt the few small cases they had worked on since Sherlock returned would've earned them some points. He heard some garbled speech on the other line, before Lestrade muttered something to someone at the Yard.

"Yes, alright, come on then," Lestrade said and hung up. John gave his phone a confused look before setting it down. Sherlock had not stirred. John padded over to him and placed a hand gently on his shoulder.

"Sherlock, you ought to get dressed, they need us down there. They've found four more bodies," John leaned over a little to glance at Sherlock's face. His eyes were closed but he hummed. John stood over him for a moment longer until Sherlock opened his eyes slowly and looked at him distantly.

"Can't exactly get up with you standing there…" he muttered. John stepped back and finally took the dishes into the kitchen.

* * *

Lestrade had not been lying. Detectives and police were pacing around the Yard, exchanging papers; images of corpses tacked up on a white board. As Sherlock and John walked in, most people did not so much as acknowledge their arrival, but Lestrade looked up and the Chief peered out over his glasses.

"John, Sherlock. Come have a look," Lestrade walked them over to the white board, where pictures of evidence and documents were posted. The Chief followed them with his eyes. John still felt slightly nervous, even though it had been 2 years since he had - lost his temper. Once they were huddled together, Lestrade lowered his voice.

"Sorry I couldn't contact you guys earlier. We've gotten quite a few new pieces of information, but the Chief is… well.. he isn't exactly happy that you're involved again. But obviously we're-"

"Out of your depth," Sherlock said quickly, examining the photographed wounds. Lestrade sighed.

"Yes. Look, the most important thing to think about here is that we've found puncture marks in post-mortem. We're running toxicology screens now. It could be that the murderer drugged them before he abducted them," Lestrade then pointed to pieces of paper with pictures of Mandy and her brother. "The man's name was Alex. He was indeed the brother, four years older. You were spot on about everything, we're bringing his bosses in for an interview in an hour. The, um, only problem we have is this…" Lestrade pointed to a table in the office on which stood what looked like a speaker. John and Sherlock approached it and examined it up close. It was indeed some sort of piece of technology, a 2-foot by 2-foot black box with several buttons and what looked like a timer on the back. The front had the familiar stereo spiral and grating.

"What's this got to do with anything?" John poked at it, feeling over the buttons.

"This was what was in the titanium crate," Lestrade moved closer and pushed one of the buttons. At first nothing happened, but then what sounded like wind flowed through the grating. After a few seconds it turned into a voice - it was _laughing_. John and Sherlock stood back, perplexed. The laugh was deep and echoed.

"What the bloody…" John looked at the buttons again. Lestrade ran his hand over his face.

"It appears that this manufactures many different sounds. We tried every button, producing sounds varying from that, to beeping, to sirens, and even…screaming. Took us a while to figure out how to control the volume," Lestrade sat down by the table wearily.

Sherlock examined it and pointed to the timer. "What does this do?" Lestrade sat up and turned the dial to the first mark, and then pressed a sequence of buttons. He held up a finger and they waited for a minute. Then, the box started to produce noises in the sequence Lestrade had engaged the buttons.

"It seems that one would be able to time out a flow of rather disturbing sounds, for hours even. That dial goes up to 24 bleeding hours," Lestrade sighed heavily.

"If this was in the box… then… it must've been on whilst the victims were still dying?" John looked at Sherlock, who was oddly incapable of producing any deductions at the moment.

"It would seem so. We tried to lift prints, but it's clean. And I haven't even told you lot the best part," Lestrade glanced over at another table where files were set out. "Those folders are filled with pictures. Pictures of the crime scenes. We spent all morning comparing them, and the set ups are nearly identical. Each one had a stereo like this in some way, but also large, standing lights," Lestrade went over and picked up a folder, displaying some of the images. "These are blaring lights, guys. As in, one look and you can't see for a few minutes. When we came to this scene-" Lestrade pointed to one in what looked like a basement, "the lights were still flashing. The neighbors had called it in, saying they heard screams, screams just like the ones that stereo just made," he threw the files down and shook his head. "Sherlock, anything you come up with, you tell me?" Lestrade looked at Sherlock sternly. Sherlock had been incredibly quiet the whole time.

"Why do you suppose those lights weren't in the warehouse?" John sifted through some of the pictures.

"The bodies you saw were not as.. fresh. The murderer must have come back to get the lights before we arrived. In all likelihood he checked the bodies and they were still somewhat alive, so he left the stereo on and it just happened to turn off before we got there," Lestrade conjectured.

"So, can we see the other bodies, then?" John shifted his glance between Sherlock and Lestrade.

"You'd better go now if you want to look, the Chief is only giving you one chance here. He's decided to watch us like a hawk this time. The last case was a simple one, this one seems to have dredged up… doubt," Lestrade was being honest, even though it twisted John's stomach a little, he knew they had to deal with it. John nodded at Sherlock, who was still gazing at the images and the box distantly.

"Sherlock, are you ready?" John waved his hand at him slightly.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock spun around and started walking off.

* * *

"Sherlock, I have to admit, this is the first time I've seen you utterly speechless," John had finally summoned up the courage to point out Sherlock's dumbfounded expressions.

"I just," Sherlock started and swallowed, continuing, "this is a very strange method, that's all. It's rather haphazard, badly planned it would seem. I find that rather dull," Sherlock sounded a little less confident than usual. John decided to leave it alone. They opened to the doors to the morgue and Molly Hooper looked up from a corpse.

"Oh! John, Sherlock, have you come for the new ones?" Molly smiled a little at Sherlock and regarded John more tentatively. John knew that Molly's feelings for him and Sherlock had changed over time, after she took Sherlock under her wing when he faked his death. She seemed to have gained some more respect from Sherlock, and she didn't pine after him in the same puppy-dog fashion. Something John didn't realize, however, was that Molly now saw him as a quiet protector. She knew all along how important John was to Sherlock, but it wasn't until she had late-night conversations with a battered and heartbroken Sherlock that she discovered this was no ordinary army doctor. She had fought Sherlock to return to John, confirming her original suspicions that there was something deeper than friendship between them. When Sherlock had a particularly rough day and ended it by yelling at her, yelling that he wouldn't put John in harm's way nor would he hurt him any more by ever returning, Molly had to softly state to him that _Sherlock, you love him_. And when Sherlock had protested, coming up with the excuse that John wasn't gay, Molly had simply looked him directly in the eyes and responded _that's not what I said. _She had begun to consider their stolen glances differently, holding back the suggestive comments about Sherlock's need for John's continual presence. It would have seemed everyone at the Yard had reconsidered the situation. John's ultimate loyalty to Sherlock and the guilt piled on by John had swayed their manner, for it was no longer _one day we'll be standing over a body and Sherlock will have put it there_, it was _one day we stood over a body and Sherlock had put it there_; it was _he protected you all, he saved you all after everything you did_, and finally it was no longer _you're a couple_, it was _you_, it was _they_. No one would know how right Molly was because Sherlock had been unable to process that piece of information. _I'm not gay_, and _he's not gay_, something Sherlock never even said, but did that time, was made to sound profoundly stupid when Molly would say _it's not about being gay_, and _Sherlock, you'll understand. You already understand, you just don't know it._ So, as Molly regarded John as though he were a savior, a man of such grace and dignity, John could not help but wonder what was going unsaid. Still, John would not want to think on it too hard. It was the spaces in between that were important, and nothing changed the fact that John was fine with _whatever _it was, _it_, that undefinable _it_, something that didn't even properly want to be defined.

"If you would, Molly," Sherlock followed her to the tables and took out his magnifier.

"They're two men and two women, one each found at the scenes," Molly pointed them out. John leaned over a man's corpse.

"Lestrade mentioned puncture holes, where are they?" Molly lifted the sheet back for them and pointed to one on the inside of the man's right thigh.

"The toxicology screens should be finished soon, unless of course you want to do your own experimenting, Sherlock," Molly laughed softly.

"I'll take a few samples," Sherlock said, the right corner of his lip turning up a little. _It's the little things that count,_ he was always told.

"So, puncture wounds, here…here…god there's three of them. There's some bruising nearby and it looks like Lestrade was right, the lacerations are identical. As well as the electrocution…" John straightened back up. Sherlock had been following along John's commentary with his magnifier, examining each wound carefully and squinting his eyes occasionally. "These wounds are not as old as the first victims, it looks like the killer got impatient and decided to speed up the process, because look," John pointed to an extra set of burn marks, "they must've done it several times, waiting for their victim's hearts to fail," John took a deep breath of air and sighed. Sherlock regarded him from underneath his eyelashes and simply nodded in agreement. He took some samples from the veins on the man's arm and his eye. John stood silently, waiting for Sherlock's commentary to begin.

"It appears, this time, none of the victims are blood relatives," Sherlock finally spoke, after several minutes of lifting fingers and comparing facial features. "They have tan lines on their ring fingers, though, suggesting these were married couples. Ask Lestrade if they found their personal effects," Sherlock clipped off some clumps of hair and proceeded to mumble on about a knee injury from biking, a nervous tic of picking at cuticles, and how _clearly_ one of the men did not care for himself because just _look_ at his nails and teeth. John found himself actually _chuckling_ at some of Sherlock's reactions, and caught himself in time to just feel a bit guilty. Sherlock was a bit mad, and John felt he must've become a bit mad, too. For some reason, this didn't really bother him.

"I have all I need," Sherlock stood and strode to the door.

"But, you didn't figure out who they are," John glared at him in astonishment.

"No, _you_ didn't figure it out. But you will in a short amount of time," Sherlock winked at him and John's usual look of _oh for goodness sake _painted his face. Perhaps John had been wrong, Sherlock was being ever so much himself.


	3. Sometimes it Hurts Instead

The tall grey buildings whipped across the windows of the cab, the occasional green of a tree painting dots in John's line of vision. The ride in the cab had been quiet; Sherlock sitting upright and tense, looking particularly interested in a spot on the passenger door.

"That was good of you," John said, clearing his throat a little. Sherlock didn't respond. "Being kind," John added, still looking out the window. Sherlock tilted his head up a little to look in the reflection of John in his window. The lines of John were blurred by the light filtering through, blotched by tree leaves floating as though they were mirages in the glass. John nodded toward him and then turned back, "to Molly, that is", he stiffened up and then leaned back away into the door a bit.

"I have been reliably informed, by a good friend, that it is preferable to be polite," Sherlock said after a moment's pause. He then shifted a little uncomfortably, "I can only hope I have been able to produce similar effects towards that good friend," Sherlock looked at John for a split second when John's eyes flitted to the left at him. The corner of John's mouth turned up a little and he blew a short puff of air from his nose.

"Always", he muttered. They resumed their previous silence for another few minutes - Sherlock tapping at his phone - until Sherlock's frame slumped a little, indicating lessening tension.

"So," John said in a leading tone, drawing out the "oh" and licking his lips. He scratched his ear and turned to Sherlock. "Where exactly are we going?"

"One of the victim's emergency contacts, Ellen Harper," Sherlock displayed a message on his phone, "Lestrade sent me the information. I volunteered to question her," Sherlock tucked his phone in his pocket and drummed his fingers on his knee. John furrowed his brow.

"_You_… volunteered?" John looked at him skeptically.

"Yes, John, I am capable of such things," Sherlock huffed.

"Sure, but, you don't _do _them. Is this a family member we'll be seeing? No wait, hold on, how do you even know who the victim was?" He turned more fully to Sherlock, Sherlock's posture more open now.

"Did you not see the -" Sherlock's voice had picked up a particular tone of frustration before he made eye contact with John. Sherlock cut himself off and closed his mouth, swallowing, his eyes then flicking at the space all around John, never actually meeting John again. "I believe I mentioned one of the victim's had a genetic disorder, John. Heterochromia. Two differently colored eyes. That's rare enough that Lestrade was able to get medical records and find out the woman's name. I have some particular inquiries. And no, she seems to be a family friend," Sherlock stated flatly and sighed in John's direction. John just looked at him in disbelief.

"How did I miss that detail?" John stared at the floor of the cab, frustrated.

"You were rather caught up in chuckling at my reaction to the corpses," Sherlock had to hide a slight grin. John looked mortified. He shrank back a little into the seat. _Was I really so caught up…_he shook his head and tried not to think about it.

"I suppose we'll have to comfort her," Sherlock grimaced slightly.

"No, Sherlock. I'll be comforting her. You'll be grilling her." John gave Sherlock a knowing look. Sherlock smirked a little. John chuckled and drew in a hesitant breath before venturing, "so, er, you alright, then?" John lifted his hand slightly and let it hover, splayed out in the space between them.

"Of course," Sherlock muttered and looked back out the window, drawing his legs in. John squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, regretting saying anything.

After another painful 10 minutes of silence had passed, John hazarded a glance in Sherlock's direction. He noticed that Sherlock's right hand had been placed neatly on the seat between them. His fingers were slightly splayed, relaxed. John studied that hand out of the corner of his eye; studied the soft grooves in the knuckles, the perfectly manicured nails, and the creamy pale complexion that covered Sherlock's prominent veins. That hand looked so touchable. At first glance, Sherlock's marble, white skin looks harsh and cold. But John knew that in reality it was something so warm and soft, something one can feel the life of a person glowing through. John felt a slight coil in his chest. He always felt different around Sherlock. But it was never something he could explain. Instead, John let his hand fall gently off his lap and nonchalantly laid it by Sherlock's. The slightest inch of his fingertip was now in contact with the fiery edge of Sherlock's palm. Neither of them shifted or made a sound.

* * *

John and Sherlock stood outside the flat, waiting for someone to come to the door. Sherlock had only begun talking again when they got to the right street, just to point out the flat. John stood next to him with his hands behind his back, prepared to interrupt whatever Sherlock might attempt to say to the victim's friend.

"So what are the names of the victims, then?" John said, staring resolutely at the door.

"Tom and Emma Gordon," Sherlock responded. He sighed and knocked more forcefully on the door a second time, and within ten seconds a short, round woman appeared at the door.

"Oh! May I help you boys?" she looked rather vulnerable. John saw that she was around sixty years old, and thought about Mrs. Hudson. He stepped forward before Sherlock could even open his mouth.

"Are you Mrs. Ellen Harper, ma'am?" John held out a hand to her.

"Er… yes," she took his hand. "Is there a problem?"

"Mrs. Harper, I am Dr. John Watson and this is Sherlock Holmes, we do consulting work with Scotland Yard", John shifted in Sherlock's direction a little, and saw Sherlock's head twitch a little. "If you would, we'd like to speak with you inside," John said.

"I…suppose.." Ellen gripped the door and hesitantly stepped out of the way. John nodded and thanked her. She lead them into the sitting room and gestured toward the couch. "Would you like some tea?" she asked, shifting nervously.

"No, thank you, that's alright. You may want to sit down, Mrs. Harper," John said, smiling softly at her. Sherlock stood in the doorway to the sitting room, his eyes flitting around to observe their surroundings. John watched Sherlock's eyes on Ellen Harper, who was nervously picking at her nails. Sherlock's eyebrows raised a little and John shot him a look and tried to draw his attention to join him at the couch. Sherlock strode over and sat next to him, just inches from John's right leg. John tried to ignore that.

"Mrs. Harper," John leaned forward and grasped the small woman's hand. She had taken the armchair next to the couch, its floral patterning causing a slightly disturbing effect against her paisley blouse. "I am terribly sorry, but I must inform you, the Yard found two bodies this morning, a Mr. Tom Gordon and a Mrs. Emma Gordon," John stopped when Ellen closed her eyes. A single tear rolled down her cheek, and she sighed, and laughed a little. John was slightly taken aback.

"Oh, Emma and Tom. Yes. They were always struggling. I had hoped they were getting better." She let out a ragged breath.

"Do you mean their marriage was in trouble?" John suggested, licked his lips and shifted a bit closer to her. He felt Sherlock lean back into the couch and spread his legs, as though he was getting comfortable.

"Their marriage, their finances, their lives… the saddest thing is they were so in love, and when things weren't too bad they were so very happy." She smiled a little. "I loved them dearly, but a month ago I had to cut ties. I hope you understand when I say they must be at peace. They were both very troubled." John handed Ellen a tissue from the table and she dabbed at her face. John looked at Sherlock, who was looking down at his hands.

"I suppose it is good to feel they are in a better place," John offered. He looked back at Sherlock and gave him a questioning look. Sherlock sat back upright and turned his gaze to Ellen.

"Mrs. Harper," Sherlock began, "did the Gordons have any enemies?"

"Oh, I should think so. They were compulsive, Mr. Holmes. I'm afraid their murders comes as no surprise, as awful as that sounds. You must trust me when I say they were incredibly self-destructive. They cost me a lot." She looked at them kindly. Sherlock's face was suddenly unreadable, and John just watched their interaction.

"Obviously they had addictions to drugs and gambling," Sherlock said as though it were insignificant.

"Yes, and alcohol," she said, a hint of surprise in her eyes, "I watched them spiral out of control quite often. I had taken them in plenty of times." She got up and took a small book out from a drawer. It appeared to be a journal. "At one point, I had found them group therapy. They were made to keep a diary about their progress," she explained, and placed it in Sherlock's hand. "The last time I saw them they left it here. You can keep it. It's a bit too much for me." She swiped at her eyes. Sherlock flipped through a few pages and closed it.

"It would seem you were very kind," Sherlock said quietly. John looked at him as though he had just suggested they jump in front of a bus. He sat back and said, "Sherlock, you had more questions?" Sherlock blinked and looked at him fondly. John had no idea how to react. Sherlock's mouth twitched and he started up again.

"They took cocaine, and heroine, and they smoked. This had gone on for the past five years, yes? But the drinking for ten." Sherlock stated, standing up now.

"Oh, yes. How did y-"

"Irrelevant. They were married for fifteen years. No children, I would think most of their family had abandoned them. Who else did they turn to? There must have been other self destructive friends in their life. And probably dealers," Sherlock paced, his hands intwined around the book behind him.

"Yes, I didn't really know any of them, though. I know they mentioned one meeting place in particular. By the tracks in Hackney." Ellen said, looking contemplative. "I can't think of anything else." Sherlock stopped pacing.

"Thank you, come John." John just stared at him, bewildered. After a beat, he stood and followed him to the front door. Sherlock let himself out and John was about to leave, turning back to bid farewell to Ellen. She looked at him with a smile.

"Your partner seems to care a great deal about you. It reminds me of how lovingly Emma and Tom used to look at each other. Don't let him go!" she winked, her eyes still glistening with residual tears. She patted John on the shoulder and nudged him forward. His eyes had widened and he opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock called out to him, so he just nodded and said goodbye quickly. As John got into the cab Sherlock had hailed, he considered Sherlock's look of fondness. That wasn't unusual. Was that unusual? Why was that unusual? Sherlock turned to John once he had settled and handed him the diary.

"Take a look, John. What do you observe?"

John turned the small journal over in his hands and brushed his fingers along the worn spine. He began flipping through pages, glancing over the scribbled thoughts.

"It's not well organized - that probably means they were stressed and wrote things down on the spot. You said they suffered from addictions; I'm sure that is distracting and produces some strange thoughts." John flipped to the last pages. "Hold on, this mentions some names," he handed the book back to Sherlock, waiting to be told how wrong or incomplete he was.

"Yes. That's all very good, John. We'll be looking into the names next." Sherlock tucked the diary into his coat. John looked at him, bewildered.

"You're not going to elaborate?" John said, staring at him.

"Those are the relevant details," Sherlock's voice trailed off slightly. That had to be a first. Sherlock Holmes, with nothing more to say.

"So, we'll be getting Lestrade to investigate possible dealers right? Do you think this is the connection between the victims?"

"Yes. and no, John. Drug dealers are not this meticulous. Besides, you're no good to a dealer if you're dead," Sherlock said, getting out his phone to tap away.

"So, then, what is our next lead?"

"Toxicology and DNA tests. Lestrade wants us to talk to Alex and Mandy's parents," he replied. John nodded and they both stared ahead.

* * *

Sherlock and John ended up in Peckham, where they met Lestrade outside the flat of Mandy and Alex's parents.

"Lovely to see you two," Lestrade said, leading the way to the front porch. John just rolled his eyes, Shelrock said nothing. He knew Lestrade didn't always appreciate them taking over the reigns, but this was a stressful case for all. Sherlock showed Lestrade the journal before they reached the door, explaining its use for the Yard. Lestrade didn't ask questions, just wrote down the names and thanked him.

Lestrade knocked on the door, which opened shortly after. Stood before the three men was a tall, blonde woman wearing an expensive-looking, well-tailored pantsuit. John suddenly felt very small, surrounded by six-foot-tall towers of people. But he had to get used to it, being the short friend. At least he was the only one who could pull rank.

"Good afternoon, ma'am. Is this the residency of the Weiss'?" Lestrade asked, getting out his badge. "I'm Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, and -" he was cut off.

"Oh, Lord, what has she done now?" Mrs. Weiss asked. Lestrade just blinked at her and before John could stop him, Sherlock opened his mouth.

"You have a stable, high status occupation, yet you choose to stay in Peckham in a small house. You think highly of yourself, judging by the way you carry yourself, and your whole family has lived here so you choose to flaunt your success in the midst of ever evolving failure around you. You are very proud of your son - you would be, he is an engineer in London - but you automatically assume that if men of authority come to your door it has to be about your daughter. This suggests you know about her personal problems and you probably tried to cut ties with her so you could preserve your honor and tell people you "tried" when in reality you simply didn't care. Why would you? You have a trophy son to show off at cocktail parties, that's all you need; after all your husband's tendency to gamble isn't really as bad as alcoholism, right? You resigned to the fact that your daughter got in trouble with the law and by now the thought must've crossed your mind that she could be in a very real state of danger. But you don't want to assume responsibility for her so you will simply put up a facade of sadness and guilt to justify your lack of faith in her and now when I tell you she has been found dead you will actually feel a bit relieved. And when I tell you her brother lay dead next to her you will be able to hide your relief behind disappointment in losing your more favorable child. But, you will move on because you are that kind of British. You don't think caring is an advantage but you must have realized by now that cold calculation is much more painful when you are on the receiving end of the judgment. Because you must know I think in many of the same ways with a force of logic but at least I know not to give up on those with addictions just as you happily make the exception for your rather wealthy husband." Sherlock snapped his jaw shut and stepped up close to her. John and Lestrade and Mrs. Weiss all just gaped.

"…Hu..how…" Mrs. Weiss' previously strong voice wavered. John regained composure and grabbed Sherlock by the shoulder, pulling him away, apologizing as he gave Lestrade a nod to take over. He walked Sherlock around the corner and pushed him against a wall, getting in his face.

"What..the _hell _was that, Sherlock?" John said through clenched teeth. "You - you _never _get that upset about victim or their family - you…" John saw Sherlock's inability to make eye contact and he took Sherlock's head between his hands, shifting it to force Sherlock to look at him. "I _cannot _help you if you don't - "

'I'm fine, John. I was just trying to get answers from her." Sherlock said and frowned, though John saw anger in his eyes.

"_That _was not fine, Sher- you can't just-" John looked at Sherlock through concerned eyes. He swiped his tongue across his bottom lip, sighing, and dropped his hands. Sherlock said nothing. "Don't shut me out, again, Sherlock. Not after…" John's voice trailed away and he closed his eyes. Sherlock bit his lip and looked at his shoes.

"I am sorry, John. I promise I would tell you if something were wrong," Sherlock hazarded a glance at John, who shook his head.

"Come on, then, better go apologize to someone else, you great git," he said, patting Sherlock's arm. The frustration in Sherlock's eyes was displaced by his earlier expression of fondness and they walked back to the house.

When they cautiously walked into the sitting room, they saw Lestrade perched on the edge of a wooden chair across from Mrs. Weiss, who sat slightly crumpled in a large, regal armchair. Lestrade shot John a questioning look, and John ignored it, nudging Sherlock forward. Sherlock stood upright and cleared his throat.

"I apologize. That was inappropriate," he shifted a little. Mrs. Weiss smiled slightly, almost sympathetically, and nodded.

"It's fine. Great minds think alike. You figured me out. I can't fault you on being clever," she said as she gestured for them to sit on the couch. John and Sherlock crossed the room and sat on the wide leather couch. Sherlock crossed his legs, sitting upright with his hands steepled at his chin. John settled in and folded his hands in his lap. Mrs. Weiss began explaining.

"Our family, or rather my family, never had much money. My husband's family was fortunate enough to own a successful company. When we met I was proud of my family history, because it represented hard work and determination. We may have struggled to get by, but we all contributed and never considered true failure. Howard, my husband, his family had been in the right place at the right time. I started out resenting him because of that, but he quickly showed me there was more to him. I asked him to move in with me because I couldn't let go of my mother's home - she bought this with all of her savings," she swallowed hard and swiped at an errant tear. "You have to understand, detectives, we are a very proud family who bask in the fact that we don't turn to… questionable hobbies," she rolled her ring between her thumb and forefinger. "When Mandy started drinking, it was a blow for the lot of us. I clung to Alex because he was fulfilling all the dreams I had for him. It didn't mean didn't love Mandy just as much, it was just harder for me to show it. I do feel badly, but I was also raised to judge those sorts of people," she put up a hand when Sherlock scoffed. "I know that sounds awful. I have been trying to re-condition myself. The point is, I tried to push Mandy away, hoping it was just a phase she was going through. The last time I talked with her she was going to get help. I did not know she had lost her job," John looked to Lestrade who nodded. Mrs. Weiss pursed her lips and continued.

"Alex was a good person. He often took care of his sister. Especially… when I couldn't. But sometimes he would lose his temper if she interfered in his life too much. They would fight and then Mandy would turn back to the bottle, and of course Alex would be there to pick up the pieces." She smiled a little and a few tears splashed onto her hands. "I loved them both. But I was losing them either way. Alex wanted total independence. Mandy was spiraling down. I was not equipped with the right interpersonal skills to deal with it all," she cleared her throat and took a deep breath, laying her hands out in front of her. She gave the three men a slightly pleading look.

"Do you know if either of them had any enemies, or perhaps were involved in something illegal?" Lestrade had begun scribbling notes onto a small pad.

"I'm sure Mandy did. Alex was loved by all. But Mandy… she had a temperament about her that drove a lot of people away. She was such a sweet child…" Mrs. Weiss trailed off slightly. She cleared her throat and added, "but if there was anyone in particular out to get either of them, I wouldn't know. They told me very little, with good reason."

"Would you like to see them?" Lestrade asked.

"No. No. I can't… I just can't." She closed her eyes and shifted in her seat.

"Do you know why they might have been anywhere in the area of the Thames?" John questioned, and she shook her head in response.

"We will have to search their flats. Would you like to collect any of their possessions when we are done?" Lestrade made to stand.

"No. God. I'm sorry. I sound so cold. But I have to detach myself." She stood, shaking his hand. John stood and nudged Sherlock in the knee, as he seemed to be off in his mind palace or something. He joined John beside the couch and they all said goodbye to mrs. Weiss.

As they walked downy he path, John remarked, "so far all the victims seemed to have poor relationships." Sherlock muttered about everyone giving up on them. Lestrade shot John a look of concern and added, "Sherlock, if you figure out any kind of connection between the victims, anything would be helpful. I've got nothing." Sherlock rolled his eyes and picked up his pace. John hesitated between him and Lestrade, and then told Lestrade to give them details on the other two victims as soon as they have them, and jogged up to Sherlock.

"Where do you want to go now?" John asked.

"Homeless network, John. We need information on the names," he said as he drew the journal out of his coat and replaced it. John chewed his lip and followed.


	4. Sometimes it Hurts Instead Part 2

TW: DRUGS

**Note**: I'm so so so so so so so sorry this is taking so long to update. I have difficulty finishing things and some personal problems now and then, so I don't get my stuff done on time. I hit a bit of a snag with the plot, but if it's any consolation, I've got the ending of this fic already outlined and pretty much written. So as soon as I get over my bout of writer's block, you'll get the ending. I'm so sorry again. Thanks for those of you patient enough to wait. I have some other fics in progress too that I really want to finish. So I will try to be more productive.

* * *

Sherlock liked to break the rules, and even though John knew they should've been playing it safe because of the Chief, Sherlock was in need of his old methods. So when they stopped the cab at one of his usual meeting points, John followed suit, more than anything preparing himself to ward off any questionable characters.

Sherlock always assured him the people he worked with were safe, but John once had to fight off a particularly pissed man who kept assaulting Sherlock for his scarf. Of course, Sherlock couldn't have just given the man his scarf. What John didn't know was the reason Sherlock clung dearly to that one article of clothing; he had worn it the first day he and John had met, and he was under the impression that John liked it. _Sentiment_, he would've said if he even had the capability to transform his less rational thoughts into words. Nothing seemed rational with John, though. Of course, John was always oblivious to this.

Sherlock strode up to an unassuming woman bundled in an oversized woolen jumper and jacket. She was leaning against a wall sucking on the end of a cigarette. Sherlock got out fifty pounds and a note wrapped within, handing it to her. Then he whispered something to her and smiled as he lit the cigarette for her. John watched, confused as Sherlock handed her the lighter and actually enclosed her hand around it with his own. As Sherlock nodded in response to the smile visible only in the woman's eyes, John looked about anxiously. Sherlock turned and briskly walked out of the alley as the woman eyed John up and down with curiosity. He frowned at her and hurried after Sherlock.

"What in hell was all that about? I didn't know you even still _carried _a lighter," John asked.

"Fire exposes our priorities," Sherlock said nonchalantly, not turning to look at John as he hailed another cab and gave directions to a dockyard. Sherlock's mind was even more preoccupied than usual, and John sensed he probably needed space and silence. He spent the cab ride conjuring the image of Sherlock smiling at the woman. _Sentiment._

* * *

John found himself carefully placing his feet on treacherously situated rocks. He cursed himself for allowing Sherlock to take shortcuts. Sherlock was heading in the direction of a particularly delapidated boat, where a scruffy old man was sifting through bags. Sherlock had offered to help John down the mound of boulders, because obviously threatening your neck by climbing down a five foot pile of unstable boulders made more sense than taking the stairs down the way a bit. However, John being an able and proud man, swatted Sherlock's hand away and bravely stepped down as gracefully and quickly as possible, disturbing a few rocks along the way. He may or may not have nearly twisted his ankle twice. But he saw Sherlock stumble, too, and smiled inwardly.

As they approached the man by the boat, John realized they were very close to the warehouse where the Weiss siblings were found. John knew that was no coincidence. As they moved closer, the man turned and grinned, calling after Sherlock.

"Oi, look wot the cat dragged in," he chuckled and patted Sherlock on the back, "its Sherlock bloody 'Olmes, smartest man in the world, yeah?" he looked at John, who had a confused expression on, and Sherlock smiled awkwardly. The man had salt and pepper colored hair, which was cut jaggedly, and a few days worth of stubble. His eyes were bright, though his face sagged with age.

"Harold," Sherlock nodded at the man, and noticed he was studying John, "don't believe you have met," he gestured to John. "This is my friend, John Watson," Sherlock said with what seemed like pride. Harold's smile widened.

"Well, I'll be," Harold stuck out a hand and John took it gingerly. "You must be one special, crazy bloke." Harold then leaned in a little, adding through missing teeth and glistening blue eyes, "I always wondered 'ew Sherlock would settle wiv, you seem like a proper bloke, though. Good on ya, mate," he looked between Sherlock and John with affection. John gaped at him, realizing.

"Oh, oh, no, we're -" John started but Sherlock interrupted.

"John's an army doctor." Sherlock said with a smile. Was Sherlock… gloating? John stared at him in disbelief.

"You don't say? A true war 'ero, no doubt. Must 'ave some battle scars, then, Doctor Watson," Harold winked. John furrowed his brow.

"I was invalided," John said quietly. Harold saw something on John's face and shifted his expression a bit, to one of sympathy.

"I got myself disabled on the shipyard," he gestured to his arm. "Cut straight 'frough a major nerve bundle," he said with a kind smile. "In the end, we all 'ave our stories. Ah can tell you don't dwell, though. Bettin' you and Sherlock keep each ovver distracted, " he said, a mischievous look in his eyes. John looked slightly ill.

"So what brings you two to my 'umble abode?" Harold said with a chuckle.

"I need information for a case," Sherlock said, getting out his phone.

"Good to know yer back on the job, my good man," Harold remarked, scratching his head and asked what Sherlock needed.

"There was a double homicide in the warehouse down the way, followed by two more double homicides in other locations," Sherlock started, showing Harold pictures Lestrade had emailed him. "Have you seen anything or heard anything? This involves a very particular method." Sherlock explained what kind of torture was involved, John setting his jaw and trying not to imagine it. Sherlock bit off his last statement, when explaining who the victims were, saying "they had addictions," and his face went more rigid than usual, even.

"Ya know, as far as I recall I saw a dodgy lookin' bloke around lately. 'E looked off, like 'e was watching people and waitin' for somefin'," Harold said with a shrug.

"The victims would have been involved in some rather risky activities, as I said," Sherlock went on. Harold raised an eyebrow and then understanding crossed his face. Sherlock looked away quickly and John felt even more confused. Harold had become stoic and noticed John's reaction. He tried to look Sherlock in the eye before he started speaking again.

"Well, my mate Arfur sometimes stays in the warehouses. You can find 'im eider in Trafalgar Square or at the dock searching for 'is treasure. 'E 'as seen the bloke, too, 'e's more likely to 'ave 'eard somefing. 'E's a ginger, 'ard to miss," Harold licked his lips and squeezed Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock pretended to be tapping notes into his phone. John had never seen Sherlock so emotional - what was this case doing to him?

"Er, have you ever seen this man's features? Maybe while making anything, like, a deal, with people?" John offered, trying to ease the tension.

"Like a drugs trade?" Harold looked contemplative. "I fink one time I saw him takin' pictures of some people. Ovver than that, he just watches. I always thought his stature seemed sad, some'ow, but I never saw him close up," Harold squinted at John as he replied. John looked to Sherlock and saw that Sherlock had stopped pretending to type on his phone, just staring at the ground, instead. He reached out to place a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, jolting Sherlock back into reality. Sherlock blinked at John a few times and his mouth twitched up ever so slightly.

"Maybe we should find Arthur, Sherlock," John suggested cautiously. Harold was studying Sherlock's face. Sherlock nodded curtly and muttered a goodbye to Harold, giving him a smile even John didn't see often. He turned and walked off. John stood for a minute and wasn't sure what to do. He licked his lips and nodded to Harold, turning to go when he felt a hand on his own shoulder.

"Doctor Watson," Harold started, drawing back John's attention. "I expect yer takin' good care of 'im," he glanced over toward Sherlock. John's lips parted and he looked a bit nervous.

"Yes, I suppose," he glanced around Harold, not knowing exactly what to say. Harold bit his lip and went on.

"Y'know, 'e's got 'is own battle scars. I'm sure you know about 'is… past struggles?" Harold said, waving his hand in a visual elaboration. John swallowed.

"Yes, well, I know he had some drug problems," he replied, shifting a little in place. Harold furrowed his brow.

"I've known Sherlock for a great many years. I met 'im on a particularly bad night, watched him make a bit of a recovery, then relapse multiple times. 'E lost the only people in 'is life for a while. 'Is brovver was the only one still talking to 'im at one point, and only to make sure 'e wasn't dead. I did what I could, being 'omeless and all," he said with a suddenly very tired expression in his eyes. ""E's not good with feelin's and that, ya know? But 'e really got 'urt. 'E 'urt 'imself a lot. And when I last saw 'im, 'e 'ad finally gotten some 'elp. That Yard bloke, the detective, 'e gave Sherlock somefin' to do," Harold started explaining.

"Detective Lestrade," John offered.

"Yes, 'im. 'Is brovver paid more attention to 'im at that point. Just enough to make sure Sherlock was alright. But Sherlock had lost…" Harold seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "'E lost 'is only friends," he finally said.

"People always told me he didn't have any friends…" John said with a slightly bitter tone.

"Yeah, well, 'e didn't. 'E 'ad one in particular, but 'e lost that one. I can tell, though, doctor Watson. I can tell 'e's changed. I can tell you did that," he said with an affectionate look.

"I suppose, I mean, I just make sure he's not about to kill himself most of the time," John said with a slight smile.

"Nah, it's more than that. I 'aven't seen 'im smile like that… ever. And 'e's never seemed so proud to know someone," Harold said.

John looked back at Sherlock, expecting him to be calling after John, but instead Sherlock seemed to be preoccupied with his phone, still.

"He's my best friend," John said quietly. He had never really said that to anyone else, before. But he felt somehow that Harold would understand the weight of those words the best, but not make a big deal out of it to his face.

"And a good best friend to 'ave," Harold added. "'E must truly appreciate you. Thank you, doctor Watson. Thank you for saving 'im," Harold took John's hand and shook it gently. John felt a pang of guilt in his stomach, just remembering what everyone has done to Sherlock. Remembering all the times he said the wrong thing. Remembering all the times he watched Sherlock's face fall.

"I'm no saint," John said with a more stern expression. Harold narrowed his eyes at him.

"Nobody's a saint, doctor. But some people are 'ealers. Some people are quiet 'eroes. Sherlock dashes about saving the day. I imagine some people fink you're merely trailing behind. But I can see it. You make 'im better. You put somefin' back in Sherlock 'e 'ad been missing for quite some time." Harold cleared his throat. John just clenched his jaw. "This case, doctor Watson. It's going to be tough on 'im. Just stay wiv 'im, yeah?" Harold gave him a hopeful look.

"Absolutely." John nodded and let the corner of his lip curl a little bit up. Harold laughed and bid him adieu, returning to his sifting and humming away.

John caught up with Sherlock and asked him what their next move was. Sherlock paused and looked up from his phone at John. His face was completely blank.

"Lestrade wants us to meet him at the Yard," he stated with a neutral tone. John nodded and gave an "mm" in response, chewing his bottom lip slightly. Sherlock walked on.

* * *

When they met Lestrade at the Yard, he was poring over files, pictures, documents, and medical tests. Donovan and Anderson were standing by the whiteboard talking quietly to each other. When Sherlock and John walked in, they looked at Sherlock nervously.

_Bloody hell_, John thought, _he told them_. It was possible Lestrade had already figured out what Harold had enlightened John with, and had warned Anderson and Donovan that Sherlock would be a bit more difficult on this case. But that gave them no right to talk behind his back - well, nor more than they already did, of course - and treat him like a mental patient. John didn't usually step in, but if the whole bloody Yard was going to tip-toe around Sherlock, he was going to be giving some people an earful. He'd told off Donovan before, nothing would stop him from calling everyone else out. Sherlock was difficult enough without provocation, and maybe Harold's words were having more of an effect on John than he had imagined.

Sherlock strode over to Lestrade and swiped a couple of medical papers from the table. Lestrade, startled, rubbed his brow and swore.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. This case! You're not going to believe it. Two of the names from the journal were the names of the other two victims. _They_ were the drug dealers. We ran their names and found out they lived by the tracks in Hackney."

"Oh, that's where Ellen Harper said Tom and Emma Gordon went for deals," John interjected. "It makes sense, then, that they lived there." Lestrade looked confused.

"Right, why was I not told that?" He sighed, wearily. "Donovan, get some coppers and go to the tracks. Find us some dealers," he jabbed his thumb in the air toward the door.

"How do we even know all of this is related?" Donovan said with an annoyed look.

"How could it not be?" Lestrade said, getting impatient.

"Druggies and dealers get killed all the time," she answered with a glare toward Sherlock. John set his jaw.

"Yes, and are all druggies and dealers killed the same way, with _torture_?" John asked, raising his eyebrows at her. She looked taken aback.

"Who knows, I'm sure they piss off quite a few people, perhaps they managed to piss off the same person," she said, cocking her head to the side and smirking. "They do tend to be mad," she put extra emphasis on 'mad', her eyes darting over to Sherlock. Sherlock had been holding the medical tests, staring blankly at the floor instead, and then he seemed to snap out of it and rolled his eyes, interrupting their stare down.

"Lestrade, I've already got my people looking into the names." Sherlock flipped a page. Lestrade looked ready to commit murder himself.

"For God's sake, Sherlock, I can't go on that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Donovan, for once do what you're paid for. Obviously there is a connection between the victims, so for God's sake just go find the dealers," Sherlock said, waving his hand in the air to dismiss her protests as he reached for more folders. Lestrade shot a glare at Donovan, and she was about to protest but Anderson, _Anderson_, took her by the shoulder and led her to the door, motioning to some cops to follow. John went after them, stepping in front of her and cornering her, looking sternly into her eyes.

"Look," he glanced back at Sherlock to make sure he was thoroughly absorbed in the files, "I know you and Sherlock have a _certain _kind of relationship," he started, his voice low and steady. "But, so help me, Sally Donovan, I will pull rank with the Holmes' and get you, Anderson, and anyone else necessary thrown off this case if you keep provoking Sherlock. I can tell Lestrade told you lot why this is a bit more complex and personal for Sherlock," he continued, voice unwavering.

"My God, you really are a bloody couple," she said with a disbelieving huff. John laughed sarcastically.

"Could you _maybe_ behave like a grown-up for once?" he shook his head, about to counter her statement, but she went on.

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't _care_. He acts like a child all the time, what's the difference? And you haven't got that power, anyway." She smiled down at him.

John straightened up and got right up in her face.

"You know Sherlock. You know he just has his own way of showing he cares. I don't know if you're just having a really shit day, because this is low even for you," he looked behind her at Sherlock again, who was thumbing through pictures. "Might I-" he broke off for a split second, clearing his throat quickly, "might I bloody remind you he _threw_ _himself_-" John stopped and clenched his jaw, visibly upset, then continued, lowering his voice even more. "He _threw_ himself off a roof to save the people important to him. I'd love to see you do that," he put a finger to his lips, smiling sarcastically and raising his eyebrows at her. He licked his lips and chuckled, "Mycroft Holmes owes me. He owes Sherlock," he finally added, "I will do what is necessary for him."

"Oh, come off it, Sherlock has always been this way. You've never intervened like this before. Are you having some pathetic revelation, then?" She narrowed her eyes at him.

"Maybe…maybe because," he laughed, "I know now more than I ever -" John bit off his words. "God, just-" he opened and closed his mouth again, pointing a finger at Donovan. His voice was starting to rise. "He will shut himself out again," he said, trying to regain calm, "and I can't - Jesus. Jesus." John shook his head, furious. "Just. Leave him." John drew in a deep breath and stared at her, pursing his lips.

Donovan just gulped, blinking a few times and watching his face. She sighed with frustration, but put her hands up in defeat. John licked his lips and nodded curtly at her before turning on his heels and moving back towards Sherlock and Lestrade.


	5. Sometimes it Hurts Instead Part 3

As he walked up, he began to listen to the conversation Sherlock and Lestrade were having over the files.

"…Madge Harrow and Matthew Farraday, they have been convicted multiple times for possession. We couldn't ever get anything concrete on the dealing," Lestrade was going on, thumbing through reports. Sherlock was staring at all the papers and images spread across the table, examining the photographs of the crime scenes. "Not only did the victims have cocaine in their system, but an insane cocktail of high doses of diphenhydramine, methadone, and, strangely enough, morphine."

"So… the murderer tortured and _numbed _his victims to the pain? How would that make sense?" John chewed on his lip.

Sherlock scratched his nose and waved his hand in the air quickly for a moment.

"…Could've wanted to give them painkillers first and then torture the life out of them so they died in unexpected, horrible pain…" Sherlock was muttering dismissively. John glared at him, pursing his lips and clenching his fists. _Bit not good_, he would've said. Would've.

"There has to be a _method _to it, has to be some reason the murderer targeted these people with such force…" Sherlock was muttering under his breath about what usually happens when drugs deals go wrong, and he began to compare the similarities between the victims.

Then, Sherlock stopped, slumped down in a chair, and steepled his hands under his nose, closing his eyes. John straightened. Sherlock didn't usually do this in public, but it was obvious Sherlock was figuring something out. So, John crossed his arms and stood beside Sherlock, looking at Lestrade with a face that read _well-that's-that_. Lestrade looked annoyed, but he threw a file onto the table and sat in his own chair, waiting.

After they had all sat in a strange silence for several minutes, Sherlock's eyes flew open and he jumped to standing, grabbing several photos from the table and sifting through them. John tried to look at Sherlock's face to see what he was thinking.

"Idea?" John cautiously asked.

Sherlock's mouth was moving though no sound was coming out. Then he closed his eyes, nodding.

"Yes. Yes." He didn't look terribly excited, though. He turned to John and gave him a completely neutral look. "Stupid, _stupid,_" Sherlock muttered to himself and continued. "I was so distracted by the minute details of this case, John. So distracted by the _humanity_," Sherlock practically bit the word in two with the bitterness of his tone, "there was the drugs, then the alcohol, then the fighting. I didn't even consider the big picture, I didn't consider how it all fit together because it all seemed so disconnected." Sherlock shook the images in his hand.

John frowned. "What's the big picture?"

Sherlock regained his composure, and John knew that in just seconds he would fire off an essay-length explanation.

"Look, look at the pictures, we have the crime scenes laid out in front of us and we couldn't piece together what they meant. But think about it, think about the box, the speaker, the drugs, the wounds, the lights. Why would they need a box? It keeps the speaker from getting disturbed, yes? People can't turn off what they can't get to. But it's more than that, it's the ambiguity. The victims were hyped up on drugs, they couldn't figure out that the noises they heard were all completely manufactured, they just saw that there was an entire world of horrific things underneath that cold, metal exterior," Sherlock was waving his hands about and spitting words out like they were coals. "Some of the victims were already strung out on cocaine, and now they were getting bombarded with hallucinations derived from chemicals and the auditory-visual sensations that overwhelmed them. Imagine waking up, being groggy and disoriented, and then having painfully bright lights flashing in your vision, anguished sounds thrumming through your head. But then the question comes to mind of why they were there in the first place - especially Alex. Alex, the golden child, mummy said it right, he was always doing the right thing, taking care of his sister. He probably found himself helping her out in the early hours of the morning, disrupting his own personal life. How would that make you feel? Hm? Would you want to seek revenge? No, no that's not what people do. Not what _good_ people like Alex do. Think about you and Harry, after all. You let her muck about and go to her aid because that's what you know to do, because you're so very good at helping." John clenched his jaw and gave Sherlock an annoyed look. Sherlock ignored it. He had his usual arrogant expression plastered over his face, almost gleeful at his revelations.

"No, Alex, the black sheep of the lot of these victims, he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. I said it before, he must've gone out to find Mandy, find her drunk off her mind and had to fight her to come home with him. But why would this matter? Why would the killer target drug addicts and then capture Alex, too? It could've just been a coincidence, it could've been a mistake. But a killer this meticulous?" Sherlock pointed at the crime scene photos, emphasizing the speakers. "This is hardly an amateur piece of equipment. And one certainly does not purchase a box that makes those sorts of noises - no, no this was designed and built by the killer. No ordinary killer thinks like this, they don't plan and torture people like this. What kind of killer does this make the person? The clever kind. Clever enough to know how best to draw out the pain. Clever enough to manufacture a device to do that with. Who would have the resources for this? Not even your average serial killer would necessarily go to such great lengths to create such a weapon. They have resources, and they are good at hiding them. One might say they are a dealer, but then dealers are often not this clean and cunning. So, what does that leave? Someone who probably knows the dealers, probably knows a lot of criminals, and uses their connection wisely. Someone with knowledge, perhaps training." Sherlock ran a hand through his hair.

"We're looking for someone who is skilled enough to avoid getting caught while they proceed with an incredibly elaborate scheme. Someone who has done their research. Someone who knows _who _to target, and when; weak people, at their weakest. You'd ask, why is Alex involved then? It must have to do with his sister, right? You know, John, you know what it's like to have that struggle in a relationship. Alex tried desperately to right all the wrongs his sister had committed, and they fought. He hated her. He must have done. She always got in the way. What do you think a bystander would say if they saw you and Harry fighting? What would they assume?"

"That Harry was drunk and I was a friend trying to help, trying to mend a situation that could hardly be mended," John stated flatly, looking at the photographs, unable to make eye contact with anyone.

"Exactly," Sherlock said with a bit less bite than his explanation had had. "Oh, interpersonal relationships are always difficult and troublesome, and this is a perfect example of that. All of these victims were described as having struggled, having suffered under the clutches of their addictions, and they took it out on each other. They all fought and they all hated. But with hate comes love, or so I have heard," Sherlock said this with only a _hint _of sarcasm. "Weakness derived from the misery of a failed relationship-"

"Oi, hands off, I know how to bloody walk!"

John, Sherlock, and Lestrade all turned when they heard shouts coming from the hallway. A woman and a man were being led by a disgusted looking Donovan and Anderson into the interrogation room. Lestrade walked around the table and followed them. John looked at Sherlock who was narrowing his eyes at the shouting people. Lestrade turned around and beckoned to them, and they trailed after him.

Once the dealers had been fingerprinted and were sitting at a table in the interrogation room, Lestrade turned to John and Sherlock as if he was about to ask if they wanted to join. He glanced toward the Chief's office warily, but beckoned them inside without further hesitation. The man was wearing a baggy green jacket and faded jeans, his hair mid-length below his ears, tangled and sandy blonde. His green eyes were bloodshot, fear and anger shining through their glossy exterior. The woman was wearing a black leather jacket and black jeans, a ring in her nose, her dark brown hair pulled back into a tight knot. Her eyes were dark and frustration was showing through.

"Right," Lestrade said, taking the seat opposite them. He clasped his hands and cleared his throat, just staring at them. "I'm Detective Lestrade," he sat back slightly. "Now, why don't you tell me who you are and what you know about Madge Harrow and Matthew Farraday?" The man and woman looked at each other nervously.

"Yeah, I thought you'd recognize those names." Lestrade kept a blank expression.

Sherlock was scanning the dealers, most likely writing up biographies in his head.

"We don't have to tell you anything," the man spat.

"Really? Because there are six people lying dead now and they are all connected by their addictions, and we know you knew four of them. They hung out at the tracks often. Now, we can make a deal with you if you give us the information we need, or we can simply get you for the drugs and all of this will have been a waste of everyone's time."

The dealers eyed John and Sherlock.

"Who are they, then?"

"Not your problem." Lestrade smiled. They both huffed and rolled their eyes.

"Look, I'm trying to make this easy on you."

"If you think we're gonna talk, you're mental."

"There's someone you know, someone everyone knows, who has murdered your fellow dealer. I suggest you stop behaving defiantly because the logic behind this situation dictates you will have protection if you tell us who this person is," Sherlock interjected. The woman flinched slightly and the man swallowed hard.

"Don't look at me like that. You know what I'm talking about. This person has a very particular method. You're not fooling any of us," Sherlock said with raised eyebrows, chuckling. John frowned but realized Sherlock was feeling confident again. Good.

The dealers remained silent. Then the door opened, and Donovan came in with a folder and silently handed it to Lestrade, who nodded.

"Ah, yes. David and Eliza Hawthorne. You lot and your bloody drugged up marriages," he sighed, running a hand over his face. The couple looked away and sulked. "Look, I'm not going to keep saying it. You really have no other good options here. Tell us what you know about these people." Lestrade pushed forward some pictures he had taken out of the folder, pictures of the corpses. Eliza glanced at them and winced. David pursed his lips.

"Hm? Nothing?" Lestrade pushed forward images of the crime scenes, toxicology reports, and identification records. "This is where they were tortured. This is all the crap that was in their system. You getting the picture yet? Tell us about their relationships. That's the key here, and you know it."

David looked at Eliza with horror, the images clearly disturbing him. They opened their mouths but said nothing.

"I'm not sure you're understanding the weight of the situation here. I can have you locked up for a significant amount of time." Lestrade put his hand out, palm up, shaking it in desperation.

"Oh, God, we knew he liked to…" Eliza's voice trailed off.

"He, then? Good. Continue."

She licked her lips and glanced at David.

"Promise me we'll be safe?" She looked at Lestrade, hopeful. Lestrade nodded. "They were friends. It… we didn't know them all that well. It doesn't matter who you are, though. He just, kills." She looked down, fear wide in her eyes.

"Who?" Sherlock asked forcefully.

"Sherlock," John said, cautiously. Sherlock didn't need to lose his temper again.

"He really isn't in charge of us or anything, it's more like he's on top of a huge web of connections. He can do whatever he wants, and no one touches him. He used to work for a man…a man… you would know," David said, looking up at Sherlock. "You're that bloke, aren't you? Your name. It's… familiar. Sherlock." He looked between John and Sherlock. "Yeah, yeah," he nodded, "you were in the news. And then there was that whole thing with Moriarty." John looked to Sherlock, whose face had gone from stern to almost, very nearly blank. But John saw the sadness in his eyes. He closed his eyes and sighed to himself.

"What about him." Sherlock stated this more than asked.

"That's who he worked for. Before…" the man looked at Sherlock cautiously, then looked down at the table in front of him, avoiding eye contact.

"A _name_," Sherlock said, through clenched teeth.

"If we -"

"Must I ask again?" Sherlock said, eyes becoming wild.

"Sherlock, don't-" Lestrade started to get up, but Sherlock just walked closer to them.

"Tell. Me. The. _Name_." He was almost shouting.

Eliza recoiled and shut her eyes.

"Look, it's a name that everyone knows, but you don't talk about it. You don't _talk _about a man who can do what he does."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Oh, yes, of course," he started, sarcastic. "We've been through this before. And he could very well be killing someone else at the moment, so I suggest you change your opinion on certain subjects." He glared at her, desperation showing through. She must've felt slightly haunted by his eyes, because she looked down before speaking.

"Moran. It's Moran." She gulped. "Sebastian Moran. The sniper."

"The sniper who turned to more vicious things after the death of his boss, started targeting people on his own..." David said, grimacing.

Sherlock stood upright, swallowing hard.

"There was another?" He asked, somewhat weaker than before.

"Moriarty had a lot of snipers in his employment, but most of them. Well. You know." David replied, looking at Sherlock with a knowing expression. John drew in a deep breath.

"Yes, well. I _do._ But that's impossible. I couldn't have missed one of them."

"Well, mate, those bodies didn't get there on their own." David nodded to the images.

"Oh for Christ's sake," Sherlock huffed. "Well, assuming he exists, where can we find him?"

"Good luck with that. He's an elusive bastard." David chuckled. "We've heard things about him."

"Such as?" Sherlock said impatiently.

"He and Moriarty were close. Very loyal man, Moran is, apparently. He used to be in the military, y'know." David was still talking, but Sherlock didn't seem to be paying attention. His frustrated, stern expression had melted in reaction to what David said. He was staring at the opposite wall, mouth slightly open. His eyes were darting and he was blinking quickly. Lestrade was talking, but Sherlock didn't hear it. Instead, he just turned around and walked out. John followed.

"Wait, where are you going, we haven't got anything to go on?" John asked.

"Home." Sherlock just walked on, leaving John behind. John stood at the entrance to the offices of the Yard.

_Very loyal man, Moran is, apparently._

_Used to be in the military._

_Very loyal man._

_Military._

* * *

John hailed his own cab after Sherlock had rushed off alone. He shook his head as he stepped inside. _God damn him._

* * *

Sherlock lay on the couch with his hands under his chin, a nicotine patch slapped haphazardly on his forearm. John walked in to a moderately aware Sherlock Holmes.

"Can you not do that, please?" John said, exasperated, as he sat down in his chair. Sherlock didn't respond.

"Are we not talking, then? What are we going to do about this Moran person, Sherlock?"

Sherlock kept his eyes shut but he responded quietly.

"We wait." Sherlock's mind was shifting in all the wrong orders, he had to keep things straight, he had to _think_. He was cataloguing everything - _the drugs the drugs the methadone the drugs_, _the wound the blood, the screams_ - but then he didn't need it all. He just couldn't block it out. _Silence. Silence silence silence _where was silence. But then he would never have silence. Not until the day he died. And even then, whatever supreme being existed would probably not even grant him silence in death.

"Wait for… your connections to give you something?"

"Just so." John felt a slight shiver up his spine.

"Alright." John looked at the clock. "God it's late," he said, rubbing his eyes. "I guess I'll eat something and go to sleep, if you don't need me. I assume you will be doing neither."

Sherlock opened his mouth slightly, and stayed that way for a few moments. He seemed to catch himself, and he spoke.

"Get some rest."

John looked at him, slightly confused, then just walked into the kitchen to get his food. Better to leave Sherlock in peace.

* * *

During John's time with Sherlock over the years, his nightmares had become so few they almost didn't occur. When Sherlock had taken his fall from St. Bart's, John's nightmares had come back full-throttle, incorporating both of his wars. And when Sherlock had returned to him, he was at first so caught up in the events that followed, he no longer even remembered his dreams. However, seeing Sherlock so distressed over their case had triggered all of the images he had wanted to suppress so badly. Tonight he did not dream. He suffered.

As John lay in bed, eyes squeezed shut tight, fists clenching at the sheets, his mind wandered through memories like they were splayed along a timeline.

_"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." _

_John had never felt more alive, utilizing a sudden rush of spontaneity, running through the streets of London with Sherlock Holmes. What was he looking for? It was not some God. It was not some bittersweet faith. It was a strong belief, it was a strong need. It devoured him whole, and he basked in it, finally feeling something. _

_"Oh perhaps I should mention; I didn't kill her."_

_"I never said you did…Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"_

_It was a smile of excitement, it was a smile of understanding, it was a smile of knowing that John was different._

_"Now and then, yes."_

_"It's all fine."_

_"That… was amazing."_

_"You think so?"_

_"Of course it was, it was extraordinary, it was quite extraordinary." _

_"That's not what people normally say."_

_"What do people normally say?"_

_"Piss off."_

_It was a certain kind of trust that John had never had. He wanted people - deep down - he wanted people to understand and appreciate Sherlock in the same way. But then, Sherlock shared a special part of himself with John. It was in the smile and the laugh. It was in the downward darting of eyes, the stolen glances and the remorse that etched Sherlock's face when he made a mistake. Oh, how he yearned for the words. _

_"That… thing that you did, that you um, that you offered to do, it was good."_

_"I'm glad no one saw that… you ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool, people might talk."_

_And people did talk. And he could've stopped them. Why didn't he? _

_"You mind, don't you? That she escaped?"_

_"Must be a vast network, John. You and I, we barely scratched the surface."_

_"You cracked the code, though, Sherlock." _

_John watched the man outside as he graffitied the parking meter. He wanted Sherlock to be happy. He wanted him to feel he had done good. But was that what Sherlock wanted?_

_John felt the weight of the cold metal in his hands as the small, molded pellet burst through the windows. He would sleep well that night._

_"Are you alright? You have just killed a man." _

_But he had done it for him. Everything was alright if it was for him. That should have troubled John, but it didn't._

_"Sherlock, run!"_

_"So touchingly loyal."_

_Jim's words ached in John's mind. It had all taken Sherlock by surprise. The weight in his heart, the sudden understanding of what that weight was. What he would not do to remove John from it all. But John didn't care. He'd be weighed down by bombs, he'd be weighed down by the smell of gunpowder, he'd be weighed down by how heavy Sherlock was in his arms. But he would carry that weight for a thousand years. It was a weight well worth carrying. He had patched and healed, shot and maimed, but nothing compared to the task of caring for Sherlock. It was a tolerance John had because he wanted to. _

_"You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson."_

_And then there were his friends. Getting shot. He ran from the jeep to the crumpled bodies, pressing down on wounds to stop the bleeding. He felt the darkness of night closing in on him in the light of day, stars shooting around in his mind as he tried to focus on the task at hand. But then the stars were bullets and soon he was on the ground and the light of day was fading._

_Trust issues._

_He had no reason to trust Sherlock. But he would until the end of his days._

_"As ever you see but do not observe."_

_"Observe what?"_

_"Ashtray."_

_It was a fit of giggles. It was a personal interaction. It was a depth of Sherlock that Sherlock hid away just for John. Could John see it?_

_"Sherlock's been drugged, can you help me here, Greg?" _

_"Sherlock Holmes is drugged, this I gotta see!" _

_John remembered the derisive laughter. The camera phones coming out as John tried to haul Sherlock into the back of the police car. Anderson and Donovan were snickering to each other, throwing jokes into the wind to follow Sherlock in the cab. John had glared at the lot of them, had bit off a bitter tone, telling them to "please put your bloody phones away and help me before Sherlock goes into a bloody coma." He had gritted his teeth and ignored Lestrade, who by the end of it had an apologetic look on his face. But the words sat in his head - poof, gotta take care of your boyfriend huh? He deserved it! He probably likes it, the freak! - and John looked at the unconscious, long body in the car next to him with such concern etched into the lines of his forehead. _

_And then he was standing in the graveyard, Sherlock telling him he only had one friend._

_I've just got one._

_Just got one._

_One._

_Why was that so profound? Why was their friendship so hard to define, so painful to admit? How does one just become best friends with Sherlock? By being John Hamish Watson, perhaps. John didn't understand it anymore than anyone else. _

_And then he was standing in the street, looking up at that strange, beautiful man. The words echoing in his mind as he tried to get his legs to work, for God's sake, run. Run, run. But it was too late. He was too late. Coat billowing. Limbs flying. Blood everywhere, everywhere, cold grey eyes, once holding the universe, now unfocused and blank. Oh, Jesus, so much blood and just let him hold his hand, no, no, stumbling now. He was stumbling. _

_Don't be dead. _

_"Sherlock!"_

_Don't be dead._

_"Sherlock!"_

_Don't be dead._

_He heard it over and over, don't be dead, don't be dead. _

_So much blood._

_Coat billowing._

_"Sherlock!"_

"John!"

John bolted upright in bed and screamed, kicking Sherlock and shoving him away as he stumbled out of bed and fell back against the wall, slumping into it.

"Oh, God, oh God oh God, oh God oh God. Oh, Jesus, Sherlock, oh God," John panted out, his heart trying to jump out of his chest, gripping his jumper as he squeezed his eyes shut.

Sherlock picked himself up off the floor and walked over, crouching, extending his arms out defensively. "It's okay, I'm sorry, are you alright?"

John let out some haggard breaths and slid down the wall, face in his knees as he let out a couple of convulsive sobs.

"God, please, no, don't." He tried to get Sherlock to leave. Sherlock stared at him, stretching out a hand and cringing slightly before he cautiously placed it on John's shoulder. John flinched for a moment, but then relaxed into it.

"I- I- I heard your - you were crying out. I thought, perhaps," his gaze shifted toward his violin, which was sitting on the end of the bed. John looked up wearily, eyes bloodshot, face covered in a thin layer of sweat.

"Oh, Jesus, no. It was… it was a bad dream. You don't have to-"

Sherlock sat down next to him and put a finger to his lips, shushing him. John gulped, his breath still evening out, his body aching and his mind utterly incapable of processing anything. He let his head fall back against the wall.

"You.. you were going to play for me?" Sherlock nodded. John let out a short, tired laugh. He breathed hard a few more times and stretched out his legs. "You said sorry," he said, eyes shut again.

"I thought that was customary when someone was upset," Sherlock said, stretching his own long legs out, his dressing gown falling open. He was wearing his usual night wear, a plain grey tee and his blue striped bottoms.

John laughed a bit, and then choked back a few more tears.

"You really - you really don't need to stay," John said, rubbing his hands over his face.

"I have nothing else to do."

"So you weren't puzzling things out, while very certainly _not_ sleeping?" John said, the slightest upward twitch of his lips making Sherlock feel a bit better. John's heart was still pounding and he was obviously still very distressed.

Sherlock said nothing in reply, resting his own head against the wall and turning it to face John. They sat in silence for a few minutes, just breathing through the darkness, Sherlock watching John's gaze on the carpet.

"…Was it about the war?" Sherlock asked quietly. John inhaled deeply.

"Yeah. Part of it."

"What was the rest?"

John just shook his head. Several more minutes of silence passed them by, opening windows in their minds to let a draught of thoughts pour through wordlessly.

"I'm sorry if I scared you," John murmured. Silence.

"No." Sherlock's reply was short, to the point. As was most of what he said.

John suddenly thumped his fist into the floor harshly, yelling, "God damnit all!" and shifting around a bit before hitting his head against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Sorry. Sorry. I- I just. I fucking- these nightmares."

"How long have you had them? I thought they were… lesser. Before."

John didn't know where all this talking and sensitivity was coming from, and God was he tired and upset and he could barely think like himself, but then what was he thinking _like_?

He swallowed.

"I had a few more. Since you were-"

"Oh."

"But. It's not a big, thing, you know. It's just- it's stress and I can deal with it and-"

"What stress are you under?"

John turned to Sherlock before rubbing his eyes.

"Fucking- look, it's, it's this damn case and you- shit."

Sherlock's lips parted slightly and he stared at the space between his legs.

"Just don't even fucking listen to me, I'm a wreck- I'm."

"Victor Trevor."

"What?" John asked, slightly breathless, turning to Sherlock in exasperation.

"His name was Victor Trevor." Sherlock took the worn photograph out of his pocket. He looked at it, smoothing out the edges, and let it fall from his hands and drift down to the floor between himself and John.

John sniffed a little and picked it up.

"He was -"

"Your friend?"

"My only friend."

"Who left you."

"I deserved it."

"No one deserves that."

"That's absurd, John, many people do and I am most certainly not excluded from the list."

"Clearly, you need someone, clearly he was someone, at one point." Silence. John hesitated. "Were you two…?"

"Use your imagination, John."

"Christ. So. Fuck. Okay. Look, Sherlock, you shouldn't blame yourself for-"

"I disappoint people, John. I - I am this. My past. You've - Lestrade's said. You don't understand how much I fell and how much Victor needed to leave me."

"He should've helped you-"

"John don't try to find faulty justification for why you stick around in Victor's absence."

"Oh, you complete bastard." John tried to sit up, his legs not entirely agreeing, so he fell to the side a bit, and dragged himself over to rest opposite Sherlock against his bed. "You don't get to fucking tell me why I'm here. Ever."

"Why are you here, then?"

John opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

"You have every right to never speak to me again. Victor left. He tried, so hard, he tried. But he couldn't. He couldn't watch me. How is it you can?"

"You've never actually relapsed around me, for one."

"That's not the point. I'm a. I'm a menace. I- I tear people apart."

"Sherlock, for God's sake, shut up."

"John-"

"If you don't shut up right now I am actually going to knock you out."

Sherlock blinked at him through the suffocating darkness.

"I was in the army for- for, God, so many years. I can handle things, Sherlock. I could've handled the truth, you know."

"I don't think we should talk about this."

"Then you shouldn't have brought it up."

Sherlock looked down in shame.

"I once asked you."

"What?"

"I once asked you why it bothered you. Why things - my problems - problems others had with me, bothered you. I-I think I've convinced myself it's because I'm your friend and your mine, but that doesn't mean you have to care."

John's face went from frustration and confusion to completely blank.

"I shot a man the first night I met you. And now, here we are. You've woken me from a bad dream, and we're having a completely unrealistic conversation about ourselves, for the first time in, God, so long. Tell me- fucking tell me how you can say I don't have to care. How I maybe _shouldn't_."

"I was so proud."

"Proud of what?"

"You."

John breathed in sharply.

"Because you… never left. You - you laughed. You laughed." Sherlock kept murmuring _you laughed_ under his breath, hitting his head against the wall.

"Sherlock, stop. Please."

Sherlock stopped and closed his eyes.

"I was always proud of you, too. I'm not leaving…" John said, so quietly, so very quietly, perhaps a mouse could've heard him.

Sherlock had exceptional hearing when he wanted to.

* * *

They fell asleep on the floor, opposite each other, the picture of Victor face down on the carpet, soaking in damaging rays of moonlight which eventually turned to sunlight.

* * *

John woke up curled on his side next to his bed, sunlight filtering through his window onto his face. It lit up his blonde eyelashes and reflected on his skin to cause a golden, diffused glow. Sherlock was no longer in his room. He pushed himself up to sit with his knees brought up to his chest, and scrubbed his face with his hand. He couldn't hear violin. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

He took a shower and went downstairs, only to find the flat devoid of a consulting detective. He plucked his phone up from the table, next to his computer.

_WHERE ARE YOU? DON'T TELL ME I HAVE TO SEND OUT LESTRADE TO FOLLOW YOU_

_ - JW_

A few seconds later his phone dinged.

_WENT TO MEET SOME PEOPLE. GOT INFORMATION. COMING HOME._

_ - SH_

Sherlock didn't usually leave to work on a case without him, and it bothered John more than it should've. He huffed and went to check the fridge. Eyeballs, check. Fingers, check. But no milk. Check the cupboards - nope, no bread either. He groaned.

_GOING TO TESCOS. WANT ANYTHING?_

_ - JW_

He stood in the kitchen feeling rather useless.

_BISCUITS_

_ - SH_

John laughed slightly. Sherlock would live off biscuits, oxygen and murders if he could. _That's absurd, John, _he would've replied. Only because John didn't know what he would actually live off of if he had the choice.

John grabbed his Haversack and slipped his phone into his pocket, heading out the door. He walked slowly through Tescos, trying very hard _not _to realize that last night actually happened. He went aisle to aisle, attempting in vain to remember what they actually needed. He didn't need to be back home when Sherlock returned, anyway. He just wanted to quietly ignore everything until it didn't matter. But the question he should've asked himself was, would it _ever_ not matter?

Lost in his thoughts, he found himself clicking open a text message, noticing that the time stamp read forty-five minutes after he left Baker Street. _Jesus_, he thought.

_GOT WHAT I NEED. FIGURED OUT WHERE HE IS. COME HOME._

_ - SH_

John sighed.

_WILL YOU GIVE ME 20 MINUTES, I'M ALMOST DONE. DO YOU INTEND TO STARVE THE REST OF THE WEEK?_

_ - JW_

_COME ASAP._

_ - SH_

John took that to mean he could finish the shopping. He checked out, and walked as quickly as he could back to the flat. He opened the door, shifting the bags between his hands.

"Sherlock! I'm back!" he said, taking the steps two at a time. Once he reached the hallway between the sitting room and the kitchen, he went to poke his head through the door where he expected Sherlock would be sitting in his usual armchair. "Hey, I'm just going to put-"

He stopped in his tracks, gaping. Shopping bags fell to the floor, almost in slow motion, spilling out onions and packets of rice and tea. When his legs started to work again, he turned on his heels and bolted out the door, dialing Lestrade's number.

The sitting room was a complete mess - chairs and pillows were turned over, books had fallen open on the rug, mugs cracked on the wooden floorboards. And there, in the middle of the room, folded in on itself, was Sherlock's blue scarf, dappled with bright red blood.


	6. No Light, In Your Bright Blue Eyes

(LET'S PRETEND THAT IN MY MID-FINALS HAZE I DIDN'T FORGET TO HAVE JOHN PICK UP HIS GUN FROM THE SITTING ROOM LOCK BOX. LET'S PRETEND HE CARRIES IT WITH HIM EVERYWHERE NOW, BECAUSE HE WAS A SOLDIER, AND HE HAD BAD DAYS.)

Any average person would have walked through the upturned sitting room and noticed the displaced pillows and the fallen books. They would've used caution as they stepped around the broken shards of mugs, and would've righted the wooden chairs that lay on their side. They would've carded their hand through already disheveled hair - they had grasped their hair as they gaped at the damage before entering the room - and sighed as they started to pick things up, evaluating injury. They would've seen a struggle - the chair that was knocked onto its back, the arm that swiped the mugs off the desk, knocked the books over onto the floor - and they would've seen an overtaking of one man. What they would not have seen was the room itself, the room before and after, its inhabitants, and just why the room and its inhabitants were so important to consider. They would not have seen the anguish of the man who was being forcibly removed from his home, his comfort. They would've guessed he was frightened - but that's not what it was. They wouldn't have understood that it was the pain of the situation, the pain of the struggle against temptation. They wouldn't have understood the conflict in the man's mind as he spoke. They wouldn't have understood why John Watson was even more terrified than usual. Because it was usual, unfortunately, for Sherlock to find himself between a rock and a hard place. It was usual, and John was always prepared.

Which is why the panic that flooded his system seemed to drown out the rest of the world as he practically ripped the front door off its hinges to step out into the blinding sunlight. If he had eaten anything that day he may have instead thrown it back up in that moment. It didn't register completely with him, but that was wholly not John Watson.

And yet it so was.

_So much blood_

_So much blood_

And now he was phoning Lestrade, standing on the pavement, glancing quickly up and down the street.

"John?" Lestrade's voice held confusion at the oddity of John being the one to call.

"Ohf- Greg, Greg, Jesus, did Sherlock tell you where Moran was?" John found his voice was much less stable than he'd have liked, so he took a few deep breaths.

"He just said he'd text me the directions when you two were on your way. What's going on? Shouldn't he be with you-"

"Fucking- the idiot got himself abduct- Jesus. Did he tell you anything at all?"

There was a quick pause.

"_Abducted_? John, do you know how difficult it would be to abduct Sherlock?"

"Greg, not now, for God's sake."

"I'm just saying. What if he went willingly?"

"_Greg!_ If you really want to bloody continue to waste time, fine, there was fucking blood on the floor."

"Christ. He didn't say. Maybe those homeless people would know? I'll get a team out. Keep me up to date."

"Shit. Yes." John hung up and licked his lips, deciding to try texting Sherlock.

_SHERLOCK , WHERE ARE YOU? ARE YOU OKAY?_

_ - JW_

He waited for about thirty torturous seconds before he got a reply.

_We are sorry. This number has been disconnected. It is no longer available. Please try again._

John gaped at his phone. It took him another thirty seconds to remember how to breathe. Next step, then. He thought back to the homeless people he had met. _Who knew the most?_ Harold. John broke into a sprint, thinking that if any cabs drove in front of him he'd get in, but until then, he'd be damned if he got stuck in bloody London traffic.

When he finally reached the docks, his heart straining against his ribs, he nearly passed out from relief at seeing the older man in his usual space. He walked up to him quickly.

"Harold, Harold, excuse me," he said as Harold turned around.

"Doctor Watson? Wot brings you 'ere?"

"Oh, God, you recognize… look, Sherlock's in trouble. I think he found out where the murderer was. Did he speak with you?"

"No, not today. Might've done wiv Arfur, though?"

John looked around quickly, still catching his breath a bit.

"Trafalgar Square?" He asked.

"Yup, that's the one."

"Thank you, Harold," he nodded at him and turned to start running again.

"I'll be prayin'!" Harold called out after.

_It was not some God. It was not some bittersweet faith._

John was tearing down the street, not particularly caring about the searing pain in his lungs. This was what he needed, anyway. This was what John Watson needed.

But not at the price it was currently coming by.

He reached the Square, eyes searching for the ginger. A man was sitting on a bench, dusty brown coat buttoned to the top, jeans tattered and stained with paint. His hair was sticking up in strange ways, the strands, however, most certainly ginger. John walked up to him and bowed his head down to look at him tentatively.

"Um, are you Arthur?"

The man looked at him and furrowed his brow.

"Yeah, who's asking, then?" His voice carried a Welsh lilt.

"I'm, um, Doctor John Watson. I'm Sherlock Holmes' friend. I think he might've spoken with you today."

The man's face lit up a little.

"Oh, Sherlock, yes, just before. He was kind. What's occurring?"

"Did you tell him where Sebastian Moran was?" John lowered his voice a little so no one would overhear him. Arthur nodded at him.

"I nearly fell over when he offered me money for the location. Quite a lot of money, mind you. Everything alright?"

John shook his head, his voice breaking ever so slightly as he spoke again.

"I think he was taken by Moran. Where is he, Arthur? Here, I -" John got out his wallet, moving to take out a wad of cash. Arthur put his hands up and shook his head.

"Oh my God, no, please. Moran's in the abandoned house just a few blocks away from the biggest warehouse at the docks. Have you seen it? It's big and brown with the boards falling apart, the shingles cracked." He pushed John's hand away as John tried to force money on him.

John shut his eyes momentarily in relief.

"I know it. Thank you, Arthur."

* * *

The house stood just as Arthur said, a few blocks from the warehouses, the outside of its structure falling apart. John stopped a few feet from the entrance for a minute, steeling himself. He had been in this area many times on cases, but had always mostly ignored this particular building. Before making his move, he texted Lestrade.

_MEET AT ABANDONED HOUSE BY WAREHOUSES, NEAR CASE OF VANISHING FISH. BRING AMBULANCE._

_ - JW_

In a matter of seconds, Lestrade replied.

_SHERLOCK ALRIGHT?_

_ - GL_

_I DON'T KNOW._

_ - JW_

He stepped up to the door, marred by scratches running up and down the wooden surface, paint peeling off and curling under itself. He tried the handle, not sure exactly what he was going to do. The door was unlocked. He opened it all the way, the age of the house showing through the creaks that echoed down the hallway, and peered in. Instinctively, he got his gun out from his back waist band. There were two rooms off to the right and left, no doors, just simple archways leading into them. He backed up against the wall adjacent to the open door, holding the gun up to his chest. He sidestepped and whipped around, aiming the gun straight out in front of him. There was a coffee table and three Victorian-era armchairs standing in the middle of an ornate rug, dark reds and blues found in the curls on the patterning. The room seemed to be a contradiction - pale golden colors spread across the fabric of the chairs, the walls a creamy yellow. But that rug stood out, making him almost feel ill. Looking around, he listened carefully, bringing his hand up to his mouth to muffle his breathing. Once he had gone through all of the rooms on that floor, desperately attempting to not hit any of the more stressed floorboards, he found a door in the back of the house that opened to a dark stairway. John figured it was a cellar, which would be a perfect place to put someone if you were abducting them. Still, Sherlock must've been knocked out for Moran to have gotten him this far. Even if Sherlock was an idiot who would follow serial killers to what would otherwise be his death, there's no way Sherlock would've given up after a struggle like the one that had to have taken place at Baker Street.

He took a calming breath and started carefully down the stairs, crouching slightly with his gun raised. As he descended, he could hear muffled noises; pounding, something high pitched. There was virtually no light, but he saw a very faint, soft glow that sliced through the darkness. He approached it slowly, feeling around with his foot in the dark. There was a door where the light was filtering through, and when he pressed his hand to it, he realized it was steel. The cold, hard surface was attached to a brick wall, he found, under further inspection with his hand. Frowning, he felt around for some sort of handle. There was a lever. _Oh, Jesus._

He wrapped his hand around the cool chunk of metal and pushed down, feeling it give. There was a clicking noise as the lock fell out of place, and the door began to give way. Light and noise bombarded him, and his hands flew to his face as streaks of blue, yellow and red danced in his vision, a loud thumping and a shrill screaming noise invading his auditory pathway. He stood there for a moment covering his ears and squeezing his eyes shut, swearing, and then pushed against the door with his left shoulder, wincing very slightly at the pain caused by the resistance of the heavy steel. Once inside, he tried to open his eyes, colored lights blaring across face, insufferable noises drowning out his own thoughts. The thud of what could have been an amplified bass reverberating in the room made his whole body vibrate, and the high pitched screeches were causing his eardrums to ache. He was able to begin to construct a feel for the size and shape of the room as he opened and shut his eyes over and over. It was not all that large, though large enough, John would soon realize, to hold a set of rotating standing lights, a makeshift platform, a titanium box, and a very much incapacitated Sherlock Holmes.

John held his gun up still, hoping at least that if someone attacked him he could hit them with it. He walked forward, keeping his arm in front of his face to block out as much light as he could, and he could now open his eyes a bit more. The first thing he saw was the titanium crate, which he _knew _was going to be there, but it still made his heart race and his stomache turn. Then, to the right around the corner of the wall adjacent to him, he could see the beginning of a long, thin body, lain out on a platform that was covered by a sheet. "_Fuck_," he could barely even hear himself speak over the sounds coming from the speaker, as he went over to Sherlock's unconscious body. He knelt down on the platform beside him - dropping his gun beside Sherlock - and placed a hand on his shoulder, shaking him. Sherlock had a cut on his temple that was bleeding down the side of his face, creating a harsh contrast to his unmarred skin. His lip was also bleeding, his hair thoroughly disheveled, and there was blood on his rumpled suit.

_He must be out cold to not have awoken to these noises_.

"Oh, Jesus, no. Sherlock! Sherlock, bloody Christ, please wake up!" John reached for Sherlock's wrist. _Still a pulse - thready - but there. _He took Sherlock's face and turned it toward himself, grabbing him by the arms to pull him up against the wall and shout at him some more.

"Sherlock, can you hear me? Damn it, Sherlock, come on!" He finally tried punching the taller man, slapping his face lightly, anything he could think of to rouse him. After a bit more slapping and yelling, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, and he let out a strangled gasp as his hands flew up and gripped John's arms. John startled, holding Sherlock's face in his hands.

"Sherlock?"

And then it started.

Sherlock's eyes widened at John in horror, and John noticed how utterly _devoid _they seemed. The usual piercing colors were gone, and what was left was a pale reflection of an alabaster man.

He was gaping at John, raw fear crawling over his face, as he started to shout.

"NO, no, no, no, _agh_, no, _no no no_!" Sherlock was recoiling from John, his eyes shifting all over John's face before he looked around the room and squeezed them shut, pushing at John and screaming bloody murder.

John struggled to keep the man in his arms, because Sherlock was starting to writhe, which wouldn't be good if he was concussed and bleeding out all over the place. Attempting to pin Sherlock down, he tried to talk to Sherlock to calm him.

"Sherlock, it's me, it's John, don-" Sherlock flailed his arms to get John off him, causing John to lose his balance and fall on him. Sherlock looked as though someone had just set him on fire. His garbled screams managed to overtake John's hearing, blocking out the horrible sounds coming from the speaker. John shifted his weight to pin down one of Sherlock's legs, holding him down by his arms, as Sherlock's hands scrabbled for purchase on John's jacket.

"Sherl-"

"FIRE, f-fire!" Sherlock was gulping for air, a thin layer of sweat now forming on his body, ripping away from John to pull at his clothing. John watched in horror, trying to grab Sherlock's wrists, but was unsuccessful. Sherlock ripped off his suit jacket and started tearing at his shirt. John tried to feel Sherlock's forehead before he could squirm away, and realized Sherlock was burning up. Sherlock was moaning and wriggling around, finally getting his upper body exposed. Which allowed John to see the puncture wounds on Sherlock's upper arm. And the track marks.

John winced.

He tried to touch the marks, but Sherlock turned over, still panting and grunting in discomfort.

"Sherlock…" John spoke at his normal volume, which came out as a whisper under the sirens of sound from the speaker and Sherlock's own cries. Then he heard a _ka-chunk_, and turned to see a figure standing in a doorway John had not seen when he came in. In an instant, there was a gun pointing at the figure, with John at the end staring him down. He blinked against the light and the figure came closer. It was a man, about five feet and eleven inches tall, medium build, with nearly translucent blonde hair.

"Don't come any closer, or I will shoot!" John shouted over the noise, standing his ground as the man came within inches of his face.

"Oh, Doctor Watson, you wouldn't want to do that, would you?" The man's voice was similar in cadence and tone to Sherlock's, though it had more of a drawl and bite.

"I take it you're Sebastian Moran." John was side stepping to keep eye contact with Moran as he walked towards Sherlock. Moran looked down, shaking his head.

"Pity, he was going to be so very interesting. He panicked, though. I didn't peg him as one to panic, but I suppose when given the proper incentive…"

"Get the _hell _away from him. What have you done to him?" John tried to put himself between the platform Sherlock was still writhing and crying out on, and Moran.

Moran chuckled.

"I gave him a chance to taste. I gave him the opportunity to succumb. He will be able to suffer along with the rest of us," Moran said 'suffer' with such intensity John flinched.

"What in God's name are you on about? You fucking drugged him. You drugged him and dragged him here and I don't think you're really understanding that _I am the one holding the gun at your head_."

Moran looked at him and cocked his head to the side.

"You know, he said you didn't talk much. I guess when your boyfriend's all caught up in the corner, you're no longer tongue-tied."

"He's no- for-" John shook his head. "You step any closer to him, I swear to you..."

Moran looked at him, a cruel grin causing the corners of his eyes to crease, as he bent lower to Sherlock. "Like…this?"

John lunged forward and shoved Moran against the wall, sticking the gun under his chin.

Moran just laughed.

"You think this is going to be that easy? You think you'll just… shoot me?"

"You're not stopping me."

Moran's smile faded. There was a flicker of something in his eyes. John couldn't tell what it was, but it distracted him long enough for Moran to grip him by the waist and shove him onto the floor, kicking him in the side and pinning down his arm to grab the gun. As John felt the gun leave his grip, he threw all his weight into his legs and whipped them around to sweep Moran's legs out from under him. Moran fell with a thud, still gripping the gun, and aimed it at John. But John was already rolling away and getting up to stand around the corner of the wall.

"Oh, come _on_, just make this easier on everyone and let me _kill_ you both," Moran said, coming around the corner holding the gun loosely in front of him. John pushed his arm to the side and hooked his foot into the crook of the back of Moran's knee, pushing it forward while bringing his arm around Moran's back and shoving him to the floor on his stomache. He pressed Moran's face into the ground with his foot.

"You worked for Moriarty, yet you don't know much about us, do you?" John said, the cold metal feeling like a hot coal in his hand as he pointed it directly at Moran's skull.

Moran was still able to speak, even if it was somewhat unclear as half of his face was on the floor.

"Captain John Hamish Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusilier. I know plenty about you, oh yes. Such as, you're pointing a British Army Browning L9A1 at my head, you were invalided from Afghanistan with a shoulder wound disguised by your psychosomatic limp. I was in the army, too, you know. I decided to put my skills to better use, though. What an insult - coming out of the army just to solve crimes with that pathetic man."

John ground his shoe harder on Moran's cheek.

"Last time I checked, it's a bloody disgrace to kill innocent civilians. Or did you miss that part of training day?"

"You're so confident in the face of danger, Doctor. And yet, when it comes to Sherlock Holmes, you make so many mistakes." Moran was squinting up at John. John was rapidly losing patience as the shrill screams from the titanium box, the thumping, and the lights were maintaining power over his sensory system.

"The only mistake I've made was not shooting you as soon as I saw you."

"Oh, no, no, Captain. You have strong moral principles. You couldn't do that. Not until it was absolutely necessary. Oh yes, I know, until you are certain Mister Holmes could die, you won't pull that trigger." John had furrowed his brow at Moran, clenching his jaw.

John crouched and lowered his voice.

"I think I can utilize a bit of liberty, this time."

Moran smiled.

"Are you sure about that?"

John hadn't noticed that Moran had reached into his pocket with his unpinned arm and pulled out a device. He pressed the button, and John heard whirring. Soon, there was smoke filtering into the room from God knows where.

"What are you doing? What is that?" John hesitated, watching as the room rapidly filled with a hazy cloud of gas.

"I had hoped to draw this out longer, but you've given me no choice. You really deserve something far worse. You took away the only thing I had, aside from my shooting skill. Such a pity, I thought maybe we could be friends, exchange war stories. Oh well." He did his best to shrug and placed his mouth on the cold floor. John covered his with his jacket, his eyes beginning to water from the smoke. He turned around and saw Sherlock gasping for breath and stretching his arm out to shield his face. Forgetting about Moran, John moved over to Sherlock and tried to drag him off the platform.

"Sherlock, try not to breathe too much in, just-" John coughed, the smoke filling his lungs as he struggled with Sherlock's body, which was quickly going limp. Moran was groaning as he stood, keeping a hand over his mouth, watching with disgust as the Captain tried to pick up the taller man. He walked up behind John, who pointed the gun behind himself while still holding onto Sherlock.

"One inch closer, I dare you." John said in the direction of Sherlock's face. Moran stopped and raised his eyebrows. His hollow cheeks dipped in even more as he sucked in his breath.

"Oh, I see, you think you've got the upper hand here." John turned to face him.

"You've had your chance to kill me. Clearly, you don't want to do that. What is it you want, Moran?" His vision was a little blurred as he blinked away tears, and he was struggling not to choke.

Moran looked at him closely for a minute. His face went from surprise to studious, his eyebrows drawn together as he observed the shorter man in front of him.

"I hid well. For so long. Because I _knew_-" he chuckled, his arms bending at the elbow as he shook his hands in front of him. "I _knew_ this day would come. The day I could _show_ you how it feels. The day I could take it all away from you ungrateful cowards. You think you have such power over criminals, when clearly it's the criminals who have their hold on you." He paused as John looked at him in confusion. "_Rache_." Moran said the word low and with a perfect accent. John's face morphed into one of surprise and understanding.

"You're… getting revenge? Against Sherlock? Because of… bloody _Moriarty_?" Moran gave him a stern look.

"You realize Moriarty _killed himself_? Sherlock just stood there. That's what he said, and I believe him. Sorry, mate, but your boss was insane."

Moran lunged at him and pointed the gun at the ceiling just as John's finger pulled the trigger, firing a bullet into the air to ricochet off the ceiling, onto the wall, and into the platform. John was too busy pushing against Moran to have noticed, as they both careened over in a tangle of kicking and punching limbs. Moran put his hand on John's throat and squeezed, while John utilized his shorter body length and kneed Moran in the groin, able to kick him off and sit over him, pinning him. But now Moran had the advantage of longer legs, and he planted his feet on the ground and threw John over his head, John landing on his back, the wind knocked out of him. At this point they were both struggling just to breathe, and John nearly blanked out as he chocked down hazardous air. Moran stood up and straightened out his rumpled coat. It seemed oddly familiar. John had noticed it, and it registered somewhere in the back of his mind, but he hadn't paid close enough attention to think anything of it. It was a dark green, somewhat grey even, with a modern look to it. It had a few large pockets on the front, and shoulder straps. It was something that would nag a person in the back of their mind, just ever so slightly unsettle them. Until they looked in their own closet. For that reason, while John lay on his back, willing himself to suck down more toxic breaths and get up, the image of that coat flashed through his mind and he was overwhelmed by the confusion of the situation, the lights, the sound, the gas. Moran bent down and reached out to grab John's collar and pull him up, but John countered by sinking his teeth into Moran's wrist. Moran let go with a yelp, and John got up, just in time for Moran to grab hold of his shoulder and push him against a wall. They struggled, grasping at each other, throwing their bodies against the wall and fighting for the upper hand. John saw an opening when he had crushed Moran's foot with his own, and he punched him in his solar plexis, disabling the man for long enough to grab the gun and point it at him once more.

"I was going to ask why," John said, Moran gasping for air, looking at him from the corners of his eyes as he stumbled to the floor. "I was going to ask why this, _all _of this." He gestured around the room, the noise pounding in his ears as he yelled with all the strength left in him. He was so used to squinting against the light, it seemed normal that the world was seen through such a small space of vision. "But now I know. You're just mad. That's all. Just mad." He cocked the gun, and as he did, Sherlock let out such a strangled moan, he looked over. Moran leapt at John, knocking the gun out of his hand. He swiped the gun from the floor, and threw himself at Sherlock, choking him.

"Get off him!" John moved to Moran and grabbed him by his hair, pulling back. Moran took the split second chance he had and shot Sherlock in his left shoulder. Sherlock howled and John swore, snatching Moran's leg out from under him. Moran yelled, loosening his grip on the gun so John could grab it, pulling Moran off Sherlock and throwing him on the floor, kicking him in the rib and stomping on his groin, causing the assassin to recoil in pain. John knelt down. "_Liberty_," he whispered in Moran's ear as he knocked him out with a blow to his temple and shot him in the same shoulder, just for good measure. Moran went unconscious, blood pooling under him. John stood up, nearly losing his balance as he let out a rattled breath and saw stars. He shook his head, trying to regain control, and went into Moran's pocket for the device, clicking it and watching the smoke dissipate as the whirring sound continued, which probably meant that there were fans. John didn't have the cognitive capacity to think on it much. He stumbled over to Sherlock, wheezing. The consulting detective's screams had been in the back of John's mind the whole time, wearing away at his heart as he tried to subdue the murderer, now unconscious on the floor.

John crawled onto the platform, grabbing at Sherlock as his left arm flailed and he writhed in pain, and used all of his remaining strength and will to pull the detective into his arms.

John struggled against Sherlock's grip, trying to hold him still as he twisted and screamed. His sobs were soaking through John's shirt, his sweat and blood covered John's hands and chest. John was holding him tight, using Sherlock's already blood stained shirt to press at the gunshot wound, cradling his head between the crook of his arm and his shoulder, telling Sherlock over and over, _I'm sorry Sherlock, I'm so sorry. It'll be ok, just hang on. God, Sherlock please, it's alright, just try to breathe_. The light blazed against their eyes and John tried to cover Sherlock's face, but he just _kept writhing_ and John kept losing his grip on the long body. Sherlock would whimper John's name, and the whimper would become a garbled statement, and then a strangled scream. Then the sobbing. Then the nonsense. John would just say, _I know, I know, Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I can't fix this, just hold on, it'll be okay_. And the blood was running down Sherlock's temple, and the sweat was coating John's arms as he held Sherlock, as the seconds turned into minutes and the minutes turned into hours, while they felt like days. _Come on, Greg_, John thought, _where the fuck are you_.

Sherlock was taking heaving breaths as he sobbed out halves of words, _ice, fire, pain, no, the dark_, and John couldn't figure out what Sherlock was trying to communicate. He pulled the man as close as he could as the body in his arms squirmed, and rested his face in the dark curls, feeling himself begin to drift. He refused, murmuring into Sherlock's hair, things he didn't know, words he didn't realize would come out, just talking and talking and trying to get some part of Sherlock's mind, his _real_ mind, to wake up. As he kept murmuring _things_ that confused both of them, he heard muffled shouts, and soon the door to the room was opening and people were surrounding them. He kept holding on as Sherlock's babbling ceased, his mind folding in on itself, consciousness slipping from him. John could hear people around him but he didn't know what they were saying, and he pulled away slightly to look at the now peaceful man's face.

"_God_, no," he said, as Lestrade pulled him off of Sherlock and the paramedics hoisted the bleeding body onto a stretcher. John tried to get up, reaching out after them as they dragged Sherlock away, and Lestrade was saying something about _let him go_, and John's legs wouldn't work, and he just kept reaching and reaching and not being able to grasp. And Lestrade was holding him by the shoulders and talking to him, as his world went fuzzy, nothing registering.

_Blood everywhere._

_Coat billowing._

_Reaching._

_No light._

_No light. _


	7. There's No Comfort in the Waiting Room

(First off: I want to apologize for the delay in the final chapters. I've been out of town visiting friends so I haven't had much time to write. But I wanted to thank EVERYONE who commented and gave kudos. I cannot believe the feedback I've gotten. I didn't expect any. So thank you all, like, bless you and your families and your existence. It has seriously left me with huge smiles and sometimes tears because I just can't even believe how kind you all are. I'm glad that you've liked this story, it's really encouraged me to continue even when I lacked inspiration for it. I'm excited about the final chapters, and I'm a bit nervous, too. I hope I don't botch it up. Thank you again for all the love!)

* * *

_Follow you down to the red oak tree_

_Will you wait for me there until someone comes_

_To carry me, carry me down_

_See I have not, I have not grown cold_

_I have stole from men who have stole from those_

_Then somebody laughs like it's all just for hell_

_Though we could not be saved from the depth of the well_

_Names get carved in the red oak tree_

_Of the ones who stay and the ones who leave_

_I will wait for you there with these cindered bones_

_So follow me, follow me down_

* * *

Dark

It's so very dark

But then there's the light

And the bright and the bright

You can hear it like metal doors creaking

The aching scratch of the corroded steel being rubbed against another slab of steel, the grooves magnified by the bright darkness

You can hear it like the screech of reality just out of reach

Blood is pumping far too fast

The pain is shooting through each of your cells

The anguish of a million years of noise is tearing at your flesh

You feel the stab in your bones, in your heart

That heart you thought you didn't have

Everything out of focus

Now there is motion, far, far too much motion

And what is that sound oh God that sound

Everything is burning and screeching and then there's a light

Oh, but you cannot see because it is far, far too bright

Suddenly you see it, there's a room, you're trapped in it, it's oppressive in its small size, you see the doors unhinging and flying around, you see the ghosts of a thousand tortured souls dancing in your vision, you see the blood, oh the blood, of a thousand men you think you have killed, and it's covering you, and it's drowning you.

And then there is silence.

_Sherlock!_

Oh God but the demon has come for you, what will you do?

Will you run or will you face it?

But is this the Devil?

_This is not some God, this is not some bittersweet faith_

What is this face, what is this face?

_Jesus, no, oh, God no. _

No, no you can see it now. This is the face of an Angel. Does that frighten you? Yes, possibly.

For what is this Angel here? Does it bring hope, does it bring security?

No, it may be an Angel, but it is no saint.

What have you done to it?

Oh, God, the torturous sound. Blood is boiling and yet so cold, so very, very cold.

That face.

What have you done, then, Sherlock? Why would you deserve an Angel? Why would you deserve some God, some faith? No, no, that's not it, and you know it.

No, it's a need, a desire. A belief. It is necessary for this Angel. You are tainting this Angel, Sherlock. What mighty power have you exerted on this Angel to cause its desire to sear through its veins, its desire for you to scorch its heart?

Oh, but of course.

_Danger._

You would make the Will of God into some perverted malevolent force.

Just remember what you've done, always.

Remember how you've brought them so far down.

Do not think it necessary for your survival. You are wretched, and in your wretchedness, you have brought misery to your Angel.

Why, then, does your Angel keep coming back for you?

Oh, then there it is again, that searing, searing darkness drowned out by the light, the bright, the screeching of the universe.

You hear it all the time, though, don't you?

You hear it every day, every night.

You're a proper genius.

And it burns you.

_I know, Sherlock, and I'm so sorry._

Reaching.

_God, no._

Into the darkest light.

Good night

Sherlock Holmes

* * *

_Beep_

_Beep_

_Beep_

A single jagged red line.

A rhythm.

What is a rhythm if it is out of sync?

Not even Sherlock would have the answer. It seems preposterous. It still is a rhythm, he would say.

But Sherlock doesn't know everything.

* * *

"How is he?" The unassuming girl with the brown hair tied up chewed her lip.

"Nothing's changed." The older woman with the greying hair and worry lines replied, tutting.

"…What about-"

"He won't even eat."

"Oh." Pause. "What are we going to do?"

"Wait. Oh, dear, I can't bear to…"

"I know. But we have to try." The younger girl stroked the older woman's arm.

"We never even talk." The older woman laughed a little.

"I barely even talked to John…"

"And now?"

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, you have no idea."

"I think I do."

"What if he…?"

"Don't think that way. We mustn't. Remember, if anyone's stubborn enough to survive a gunshot and a concussion, it's him."

They laughed uneasily to themselves.

"Has Greg been round?"

"Oh, yes, he came in with them. He called me after. He was so upset."

"Well, of course."

"No, but, because of John, too."

"Oh?"

Mrs. Hudson tsked.

"They wouldn't even let him in the ambulance."

"Why not?" She cast a nervous look on the landlady.

"Not _family_," she replied, using air quotes and shaking her head.

"As good as…" Molly mumbled.

"That's what the detective said, but…at least they let him stay."

"I think John'd bring the whole of England down until they did."

"He'd do his best until they both could, those silly boys."

Silence.

"Do you think they…?"

"Oh, who knows. They don't even know, do they?"

A chuckle.

"Sherlock doesn't like an unsolved puzzle. He'll come back just to figure it out."

"Hopefully for more than that."

"Oh, now, has there ever been anything else he wanted… _needed_ so badly to understand?"

"I don't know. You know him better than I."

"I don't think so. I don't think any of us do. Aside from John."

"He's an anomaly, isn't he?"

"The very best kind." Mrs. Hudson smiled slightly.

"What did it… feel like?"

"What?"

"Thinking he'd… actually died."

Mrs. Hudson looked at her with pain.

"It felt like England had fallen."

* * *

John sat.

He sat and sat.

He leaned forward, then sat back again.

_"Please, please just-," _

_"No, John. Come with me."_

_Knees buckling. Falling in and out of consciousness._

_"I'm a doctor, please, I'm a doctor."_

_"John."_

_"Please, let me come, please-"_

_"Don't."_

_"No, he's my friend, please-"_

_Hands gripping arms, holding his body back and up. _

_"Jus- just let me-"_

_"Someone help me. Donovan."_

_More hands._

_"No!"_

_Knees giving out._

_Falling._

_"Get him in the van, we'll take John to the hospital."_

_"Sir, is he injured?"_

_"I'm not sure. He's not-"_

_"He's unconscious."_

_"I didn't-"_

_"Meet us there, please. We may not have time to get another van."_

_"Yes, okay, alright. Donovan, grab his legs."_

* * *

_Fussing._

_They were fussing._

_No._

"I'm fine."

"You inhaled some God awful gases for a very long time, Doctor Watson. You are very much the opposite of fine."

"Jesus, look, I'm breathing, I'm conscious, I am aware, just let me go."

"We have to check your-"

"I am a bloody doctor, I know that my heart is pumping and my lungs are working."

"Yes, and your friend may be dying."

John pursed his lips.

"I'm sorry, Doctor Watson. I cannot let you go until we do a thorough check and run some tests."

John said nothing.

"And just in case you're thinking of running off…" she glanced sideways at Lestrade, standing in the doorway.

"John." He nodded.

"Greg, please, just-"

"There is nothing you can do for now, John. You should rest."

"I'll bloody well rest when I know that man is-" John caught himself and clenched his jaw.

"He's taken care of. And Sherlock is, as you know, not waking up yet. You. Should. Rest."

* * *

Bloodshot eyes, tousled hair, weary frown.

Captain John Watson sat with one hand clenched on his knee and the other gripping the semi-soft synthetic fabric of a corner of the hospital sheet. The machine beeped out a heart rate, a beat meant to reassure, but all it seemed to do was cause worry. John had forgotten how to blink. Perhaps he feared that if he blinked, the sleeping alabaster visage in front of him would fade away. Even more than it already had.

Lestrade quietly opened the door and took a step into the room.

"John," he began, clearing his throat.

Silence.

"John, please, will you just come out for an hour?"

Steady breathing. Fist clenched.

Lestrade sighed, rubbing his brow with a weathered hand.

"Can I at least bring you food?"

John turned and looked at him, the bags under his eyes more pronounced than usual by the shadow of his brow.

"I'm fine." John looked at him blankly, barely moving his lips as he spoke.

Lestrade gave up and walked back out into the hallway.

"Did you have any luck?"

"I think I'd have to handcuff him and physically drag him out."

"Maybe we should…"

"You know he'd still fight, Mrs. Hooper."

"We could try."

"Oh, the poor dear hasn't even moved in days…"

"Mrs. Hudson, would you mind getting a cup of tea? Maybe we could do an intravenous-"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"What other ideas have you got?"

Molly hung her head.

"Nothing."

The three friends turned to look when they heard that familiar posh drawl by the help desk.

"You are to replace the files you have with these…"

They saw a folder emerge from his briefcase.

"…and you are to appropriate myself and Doctor Watson with all access and power of Attorney…"

"-Sir we cannot simply-"

"I assure you, you can."

He turned on his heel, leaving behind a startled nurse, to walk toward the group of concerned faces.

"Mr. Holmes," Lestrade nodded at Mycroft, straightening up slightly.

"Oh, do call me Mycroft. How is my brother?"

"Nothing's changed since you came last."

"Including the leniency of the staff," Mycroft said with raised eyebrows.

"Sherlock always spoke as though you had all the power," Mrs. Hudson said with a kind smile.

"I occupy a minor…" he sighed. "I do my best. The hospital just likes to misplace my orders."

They turned back to the window that separated them from the sleepless and the sleeping men.

"I tried to drag him out for a sandwich, or a pint or something, but-"

"It's not your responsibility, Detective Inspector," Mycroft gave him an understanding look, leaning on his umbrella, the feel of the handle on his palm displacing a bit of his anxiety.

"This isn't like John, though," Mrs. Hudson spoke around the fingertip she was nibbling on.

"This isn't a normal circumstance," Molly said, fiddling with her hair.

Silence.

* * *

"Visiting hours are over in five minutes." The stern expression plastered on the face of the nurse said she was being serious this time. Contrary to the last three times she had stated the exact same thing in the space of twenty minutes. Lestrade looked to her with an impatient smile.

"Can't he stay, at least?" Lestrade asked with a glance toward John.

"I've told you before, it's against policy. He'd have to be family," the nurse replied with a sigh. Lestrade shook his head with a huff.

"He's as good as."

"Love, I'd let him, but…" she shrugged.

"All he's going to do is… he's just got an empty flat to go to."

"Unless you think he'll hurt himself, in which case we'd need to hospitalize him-"

"Oh for God's sake, he's not going to be a danger to anyone, but he's a wreck. I certainly can't get him to do anything aside from sitting there."

"I'm sorry." She started to walk away, but Lestrade called after her.

"Has he improved, at all? Can you tell me anything?" She looked at him and then down to the chart in her hand.

"We don't know when he will wake up. He probably won't have any internal damage but…"

"What?"

"He had a lot of drugs in his system, a blow to the head, and a gunshot wound. You do the math. Odds are, he'll get better. He just needs time."

"Yeah, it's the ambiguity of your answer that makes me nervous."

"I know." She stared at him for a moment and then disappeared around the corner. Mrs. Hudson came out of Sherlock's room and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"It's been days, maybe he'll finally get some proper sleep." She sounded comforting, but her face was etched with concern. She went into the room and Lestrade watched her take John's hand in her own and speak to him quietly. John hung his head and rubbed his eyes, nodding. Just like the last three nights. He walked out in front of her and Lestrade offered him a weak smile. John's glance flicked toward him and then back to the ground. _Jesus_


	8. This Is How I Show My Love Part 1

PLEASE READ: Again, thank you all for the lovely comments. I don't want people to think I'm rude for not replying - I just haven't any idea how to express my gratitude. For all that is good, if I had only gotten one review I would've been dancing about. I read all your comments and I appreciate everything.

This is a very short update, I've been quite busy again, and not having the best time back home, but I'm putting this chapter up because I'll be doing the next one sooner. I am a slight bit worried that my feelings about protective!John are showing through and making him a bit harsher than he should be. If anyone feels this is particularly taking away from the story, please let me know and I'll work around it. I just have a thing for BAMF!John. Though when isn't he a BAMF? Hehe. Thank you all for staying with me =)

* * *

They stood in the hallway at the foot of the steps. Mrs. Hudson fingered the collar of her dress while staring at a crack in the floorboards. She looked up when John cleared his throat slightly. She tsked and patted him on the shoulder.

"How about a cup of tea, then?" He simply nodded and moved to a chair in the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson watched him, knowing this was not the John she knew, not _their_ John. He wasn't the John Mike Stamford knew before the war, nor the John he found after, torn apart by the sudden shift from bloodshed and cruelty to _same, same, dull, dull, life._ He was a John growing numb to the loss, after having lost the one thing that mattered once already. What war was left for John Watson? The war between a staggering red line and the cold harsh truth of the solitary, white hospital room? He'd sink into the wall, soon. And yet, he was still the Very Best Kind of Anomaly John. He was still the only John for Sherlock. He was still the John who could mend and heal the ones around him. He was still the John who could call Sherlock a daft git and elicit a warm, appreciative smile from the usually cold, dark man.

Mrs. Hudson put on the kettle and got out a packet of biscuits. She placed a few on a plate and pushed it gently across the counter to John. He blinked at the biscuits for a moment before picking one up and taking a few small bites. They sat in silence until the familiar rumble of boiling water brought them momentarily out of their heads. Mrs. Hudson poured out two mugs of tea and set one in front of John with a pat on his hand. John drank from the mug, not caring if it was too hot, and they returned to a silence broken only by their soft sipping noises. After a few minutes, he looked at her, really _looked_ at her, for the first time in days.

"I could've killed him." His voice was low and scratchy from lack of use.

"Oh, that awful Moran person? You did what needed doing." She looked back at him through worried eyes. He continued looking at her for a few moments, and then added, "I should've." He took the final swig of his tea and got up, moving to the sink and dropping it in before going straight to his room and slamming the door. Mrs. Hudson stood by the table, one hand on the edge, as a few round teardrops hit the counter.

* * *

_When it comes to Sherlock Holmes, you make so many mistakes._

Moran's words echoed in John's mind just as the hollow Irish drone of Moriarty's voice once did.

_Jim Moriarty. Hi._

_You can talk, now, Johnny boy._

He'd felt helpless under the layers of C4 and parka. He'd felt helpless, even with the man he trusted most in the world holding the gun at the consulting criminal. What if Sherlock had run? What if he'd been able to save Sherlock from the whole mess of it all and-

John snapped out of his daze and withdrew from the crevices of his mind that usually were laid to rest. It was unsettling, hearing those voices in his head. They were tinged with insanity, something that cannot be described, that at first feels hollow, and then has that cruel sting to it.

_I could've killed him. I should've._

John knew why he hadn't, though. He wanted Moran to suffer. John wasn't a torturer in the war. He was a healer. But when surrounded by such bloodshed, such blind acts of violence, you don't leave the way you came in. You don't go on feeling like a healer. You feel like the broken soldier who couldn't save that last man. _Strong moral principles._ John clenched his fists on his knees. He sat back on his bed, resting his head against his pillow. He closed his eyes and fell asleep, only to immediately be the unwilling audience to his own memories flashing across his vision. He could hear the men by his side, yelling out to him as shells landed nearby, semi-automatics rattling out casings and then there was an explosion and everything went dark.

_I'm not the same John Watson-_

John had appeared different - no, he _was _different - to Mike Stamford, the first time they saw each other since medical school. It wasn't a surprise. No, the real surprise lay in the loyalty John held for the famous consulting detective. The loyalty that took lives; took lives in the name of Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock had given John no reason to trust him - yet he did. Perhaps it did just start out as a way to ease the boredom. Or it all was hinged on the curiosity John held for the mysterious tall man. Maybe it was because Sherlock was the first person to give John what he needed - Sherlock didn't treat him like an invalid. He regarded him with a lot of respect, considering how Sherlock treated other people. Did John know this? By now, maybe. Maybe not. But as he lay there in bed dreaming of a pale reflection of an alabaster man, there must've been some part of John that understood he was special.

And then he was in his own room, though much of it was far too bright and faded. He sat on the edge of his bed, Sherlock next to him, and he held Sherlock's hand. They looked at each other.

_"John, you're holding my hand."_

_"You're in a coma, Sherlock. What else am I supposed to bloody do?"_

Sherlock looked down at the hand for a moment.

_"Wake me up."_

_"For goodness' sake, I can't just-"_

_"You have to, John. If you don't wake me up…" _Sherlock looked away, sadness burning in his eyes. His blue eyes, no longer bright, but pale, colder than the oceans they held.

_"Sherlock, I swear to God, if you don't wake up, I will sell my soul to the Devil to bring you back just so I can kill you myself."_ Sherlock looked at him with a curious expression. The expression reserved for when John surprised him. He shifted and took John's other hand in his, leaning toward him.

_"You've got to try, John. Just really, really, try. I believe in you, John. But…it's dark here. I- where am I?"_

Then John was sitting in the hospital room, alone. On that particular day, no one was around, so he laid his forehead on Sherlock's open palm. It was far too cold - its coldness matched the hue of his eyes and skin. That was wrong. It was so wrong. It didn't make sense. It didn't make sense.

And then the hospital room faded away and he was sitting on his bed again, and Sherlock was looking at John's hand.

_"You're in a hospital bed, in a coma, Sherlock. I can't do anything. I'm useless."_

_"Don't be absurd, John. You just have to wake up, now."_

_"What?"_

Sherlock looked down a moment.

_"I know where I am, John."_ He moved his hand on John's to John's chest, right over his heart. John looked up at him, and Sherlock was smiling slightly. _"Do you?"_

John woke up slowly, scrubbing a hand over his face as he studied the part of the bed he had been sitting on in the dream. That wasn't Sherlock. He's not like that - at least, John didn't think he was. God, what had happened to his Sherlock?

John blinked at that thought.

_His _Sherlock.

He closed his eyes and sat up, dangling his legs off the edge of the bed. After a moment he looked at the clock. It was seven in the morning. He had just a few hours before he could go back to the hospital. He could go back to sleep, or…

_No. Get up, Watson._

John breathed in deeply, sitting up straight and gathered himself. He went into the bath and took a shower and shaved, letting the steaming water soften some of the lines of his face.

It was absurd, really.

John knew it.

Sherlock wouldn't have wanted John to be falling apart so.

He would've thought it was ridiculous.

_You were a soldier, John. _

_I had bad days._

He looked in the mirror and ran a hand through his damp hair. Soldier on. He almost smiled.

* * *

When John got to the hospital, Lestrade was waiting outside Sherlock's room.

"John, good to see you," Lestrade said with a long nod, noticing that John had shaved and looked slightly more… alive.

"Greg." John nodded minutely back and glanced at Sherlock quickly. "How…?"

"No change." Greg worked his tongue against his cheek, giving John a shrug. "Sorry." John knitted his brow.

"John, look, Moran woke up."

John swallowed.

"He's in pretty good condition. Disoriented, obviously, but well enough to be… interrogated, soon."

John was nodding slightly, fist clenched at his side. Lestrade leaned in and lowered his voice a little.

"You- why don't you join me when I do." It was more of a statement than a question. John looked at him steadily. "I think," Lestrade continued, squinting off to the side slightly, "I think you'd like to understand just as much as I do."

John reached out a hand to Lestrade. Lestrade looked down at it, and shook it silently.

"We'll be taking him to his own room and then- I'll let you know." Lestrade looked down at him sternly. "Good to see you." And with that, Lestrade turned on his heels and disappeared down the corridor. John steeled himself and went into the room, sitting down by the bed as usual.

He hung his head and clasped his hands in between his knees.

"Sher-" he began, but his voice caught, and he huffed. He shifted closer and hesitantly held Sherlock's hands, his gaze drifting from the tube attached to the machine until it reached Sherlock's mouth. He licked his lips and shook his head. "I'm going to talk to him, Sherlock. I'm going to talk to him, and try to understand, just like you would. But," he looked down at Sherlock's hand, "I can't promise I'll figure anything out. I can't promise I'll _know_ what drove him to… how could anyone?" He breathed in and pursed his lips. "You told me to wake you up. You told me to try, really, really hard. But I can't. Not yet. Because if you saw me-" he rubbed his thumb over Sherlock's wrist "-if you saw me like this again. I couldn't handle that, Sherlock. I'd feel too badly about it. Because I can't play the game until it's over. I've done bad things before, and even if they were done to help good people, they were still bad. And I'm going to keep doing bad things, Sherlock. I'll keep doing bad things for you, because God help me, I can't stop myself. But why am I telling _you_ this? You must know this. You know everything about me. Right? You always do. Even the very first time we met. You were such a show off, you bloody git," he laughed slightly. He then leaned closer and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I need to tell you, now, because I doubt there will be any better time. Lestrade is letting me talk to him. And I think, if I'm very lucky, and if the universe has already accepted that I'm going to Hell and can't do anything to change that, then I think Lestrade might leave me alone with him." He smiled at Sherlock and rubbed his shoulder. "Remember that time the American attacked Mrs. Hudson?" He kept smiling. "I imagine it'll be something like that.


	9. This Is How I Show My Love Part 2

_We must not look at goblin men_

_We must not buy their fruits:_

_Who knows upon what soil they fed_

_Their hungry thirsty roots?_

* * *

John Hamish Watson was not a bad man. He was a very, very good man. Sherlock Holmes was not a bad man either; a great man, indeed, himself. Some hoped that one day Sherlock would be a good man, too. But the things that made John Watson a good man, the things that made him the Very Best Kind of Anomaly John, were the exact things that allowed him to understand that Sherlock was already a good man. Sherlock himself had begun to prove it by sacrificing his life - so everyone thought - to save his friends. His return, granted, did not earn the same regards. There was a lot of controversy, more than usual, surrounding Sherlock Holmes, and whether a man who could fake his death so well could be trusted. Of course, John had already admitted that Sherlock was the best man he ever knew. Thus, Sherlock's return garnered a steady rebuilding of his relationship to John. There was never broken trust; simply broken hearts. Oh, yes, only Sherlock Holmes could give John reason to be undyingly loyal to someone. Many would ask why that is, why a mysterious creature, such a harsh, unyielding individual as Sherlock would be an anomaly in the same way John was. But those many don't matter much, do they? They were the Yarders, the citizens, the not-Lestrades, the not-Mrs. Hudsons.

But Sherlock Holmes and John Watson still held secrets from each other. Because the only thing they didn't trust themselves with was their dimly lit pasts. They knew enough about each other that it didn't wholly matter - but they often feared telling whole truths. With trust also came the respect of privacy. They could trust each other not to delve too deeply.

Which is why Sherlock doesn't know that John Watson can lose his temper.

Not as he might have when Moriarty was playing them.

Not as he might have when someone was threatening Sherlock.

But in a furious and aggressive way - one born out of absolute loss of himself.

John needs _something_ to guide him. He needs something that will channel all he is into one finite thing so he won't burst.

He's very good at controlling himself so long as he has that something.

Sherlock doesn't know about the time when John was a teenager and his sister Harry came home late one night.

John was just a regular lad. He went to school, he went on some dates, did his work, didn't much act out. He wouldn't admit it but if he hadn't kept his head down and behaved with reasonable responsibility, how could he have fended for himself and his family? His parents were hardly there for him. His mother was a drunk - it ran in the family - and his father was always working to pay the bills. And since his family was convinced that homosexuality was a cause to rot in Hell, his mother had insisted Harry go on a date with "the nice young man around the corner".

John and Harry may never have gotten on, but John was too decent to neglect her. He wouldn't let Harry pay for their parents' mistakes. And because John is so very decent, that night will forever leave a pang of guilt deep in his stomache, twisting into something ugly he wished he could burn away in the smoky embers of 221B's fireplace. Something he wished he could delete, so easily as Sherlock claimed. But he also knew he had to remember it, so it would never happen again.

Sherlock didn't know, and likely never would, that on that one night, John had risen to the distressed sounds of his older sister being assaulted on their front step. And for those few minutes, John would forget all the times Harry had called him names, all the times she'd thrown things at him, all the times his family had hurled insults at either of them. He would forget the need for retribution, and toss away his covers to run down the stairs, pulling open the door to be the unhappy witness to the Nice Young Man Around The Corner pushing Harry up against the wall by the door and muttering in a drunken slur that she was a "lesbo bitch", a "fucking poof", that she would "go to Hell", and "do what I fucking tell you to".

And for those few minutes, where all John saw was a blur of red and fear and hatred, and all he felt was his fist in the man's stomache and Harry pulling at him as the man swung back, and the vile, vile words that poured out of their mouths; for those few minutes, John could see himself and could see his potential; could see he needed to be held back.

So John had locked it all away, deep in his mind. He joined the army, he became the Man of Principle. He created himself and maintained himself with something.

Eventually, that something became Sherlock.

* * *

_Come, scientist._

_Destroy me._

_Destroy your creation._

* * *

"Good morning, John," Mycroft spoke through a small smile as he leaned on his umbrella, gazing down as the army doctor walked up to him.

"Mycroft." John nodded and licked his lips. "Have the nurses come round?"

"Not this morning, no." Mycroft hesitated. "I heard that Mister Moran woke up," Mycroft said, raising his head and keeping his eyes locked on John's.

John was silent for a moment before he nodded.

"You're going to speak with him privately, yes?" Mycroft's tone was knowing, and there was a slight look of curiosity in his composure.

"Lestrade will be there."

"John, I know you are upset-"

"Yes."

Mycroft breathed in and held his breath, softening his expression. He raised his eyebrows and blinked once, breathing out, shoulders sagging slightly. "I'm only saying. Be careful."

"No need to worry." John looked at him sideways, his body facing Sherlock's room.

"No?" Mycroft looked toward Sherlock and back at John. "You should know. No matter what happens when you are with Detective Lestrade or…" he brushed slightly at the lapel of his suit, running his tongue along his upper teeth. "…or not with him - you will never officially have been in that room." Mycroft then met John's gaze and held it. John stood upright, his hands clasped behind his back. He kept a neutral expression. "Sebastian Moran is an unsavory character. One who -" Mycroft smiled slightly, "- I will be taking off of Scotland Yard's hands, soon, no doubt." He swung his umbrella slightly as he walked up to the window of Sherlock's room. "We must protect my brother," he said quietly.

John stood and stared absentmindedly through the window until Mycroft turned his head and looked down at him.

"I must be off," Mycroft turned back to Sherlock's room for a moment, adding, "I rather think the water needs changing, don't you?" He glanced at John again, his face unreadable, and he walked slowly down the hall. John stood in silence, looking at a spot on the floor before he knitted his brow and looked through the window.

_Water needs changing._

He opened the door and walked through, clenching his jaw as he passed the sleeping detective and approached the vase that Molly Hooper had left full of white carnations. He examined it and picked it up, checking the water before he noticed it, sitting carefully obscured by the pitcher of water.

It was an ashtray.

No.

No, not an ashtray.

It was _the_ ashtray. It was the ashtray Sherlock had stolen for John, all those many months ago.

John's hand clenched on the cool, bumpy surface of the glass. _I am seriously fighting off an impulse to steal an ashtray._

_You see, but you do not observe._

_Observe what?_

_Ashtray_.

John tucked the ashtray into the pocket of his Haversack. Before he left the room, he gazed at Sherlock, the man, for once, unthinking. He looked strangely peaceful. Yet it was an unsettling peace. Unable to see those piercing eyes, those eyes that had lost their light, hidden under the pale skin of Sherlock's eyelids, John almost thought he saw a child in front of him. A great, sleeping child. He steeled himself and didn't look back as he closed the door softly behind him. His hand dipped into his pocket and found his mobile, and he smoothed his thumb over the screen for a minute, considering.

Finally he tapped out a message.

_ARE YOU READY?_

- JW

He waited for a minute.

_IF YOU ARE. COME TO ROOM 122._

- GL

* * *

As John approached Moran's room, he noticed Lestrade standing against the wall, his face blank. There was no one else nearby. He perked up slightly when he saw John. They stood a few feet apart, looking at each other with stern expressions. Lestrade seemed to be studying John. After a few moments, he nodded almost imperceptibly and placed his hand on the door handle.

"I'll start off with some… usual questions," Lestrade said. He opened the door and they walked through. Moran was lying on a bed, his shoulder in a sling, wrappings on his head, bruises having bloomed on a few areas of his body. He watched the two men approach, quietly.

Lestrade stood at the foot of the bed for a moment, John behind him with his hands clasped behind his back once more. Motioning John to a chair, he picked up his own and scooted it by the edge of the bed. He sat heavily, picking up a file that had been left on the table. Moran continued to watch in silence, though one hand gripped slightly at his covers. Lestrade shook his head as he flipped through the pages of the folder. He took some images out and a couple of medical documents, and tossed them onto the bed in Moran's line of sight. He swiped a hand through his hair and crossed one arm over his chest, resting his elbow on it and placing a hand over his mouth. Moran eyed him with a hint of curiosity. Lestrade cleared his throat.

"See," he began, removing his hand from his face and placing his forefinger on one of the images. The one of the room John found Sherlock in. John's jaw tightened. "This," he jabbed his finger harder at the image, "_this_ is wonderful." He laughed in disbelief. "Because you've basically handed yourself in." He shook his head at Moran, licking his lips. "You're going to go," he raised his voice slightly, "and abduct one of our _lead_ detectives…" he picked up the image and placed it closer to Moran, and John felt a strange twinge in his chest when he heard the words "lead" and "detective". "… And what?" Lestrade held up his hands in front of him in confusion. "Torture the bloody soul out of him, leave behind _evidence_," he pointed to a picture of Sherlock's bloodied scarf. John shut his eyes for a moment. _Blood everywhere. Coat billowing._ "And somehow expect that this'll be you're grand retribution? Did you _plan_ to get caught, or was this all just a great bleeding cry for attention? Because I assure you, you could've done a lot less, and we still would've caught you." He picked up one of the medical documents. He glanced over it and pushed that toward Moran, too, running his thumb down a line of words. "These are all traceable, all highly destructive, and frankly, incredibly stupid to use. You almost could've gotten away with it, except you upset some bloody well known drug dealers. Which, of course, you did on purpose, right? So what exactly was this, then? Pick out the addicts, poke at their greatest weaknesses, disturb the man lying in the room down the corridor because you _could_?" Lestrade sat back and sighed. Moran stared down at the pictures. John was trying in vain not to look at the scarf.

There was a brief space of silence, before Moran spoke, softly. "I did it because I could."

John and Lestrade just stared at him.

"I learned from the best," Moran spoke a little louder now, a soft grin reaching his lips.

"Moriarty," John said. He felt a slight throb in his leg and huffed out through his nose.

Moran licked his lips and considered John. "Everybody's got that person to stop them, haven't they? One might think you're that person for Holmes, Doctor. But we both know that's not quite true," he spoke with a glimmer in his eyes and a small smile. John blanched.

"Are we to guess you were that person for Moriarty? Because I don't know how someone as mad as you could have the wherewithal to stop someone just as mad," Lestrade asked, his expression hardening.

Moran turned to Lestrade, his lips pushed into a thin line as he knitted his brow. He reached out a hand and patted the images. "You've got everything you need," he stared at Lestrade. "Just get it over with."

Lestrade held his ground and returned the glare, John clenching and unclenching his fists.

"If you want to give up so easily," Lestrade said with a hint of indignation, "why don't you explain everything?" He shifted the images to point out the speakers and the lights. "You could've tortured them in any way. Why this?"'

"I told you; because I could," Moran's voice rose a little, anger growing in it. His lip twitched and he lowered his voice again, looking down at his hand. "I missed the laughing."

John and Lestrade glanced at each other.

"The laughing?"

"Jim had such a nice laugh."

John felt like throwing up. Lestrade just looked at Moran with confusion.

"You…made a speaker… to emulate Moriarty's laugh… to inflict on others, because you… _missed_ it…?" Lestrade said carefully, deliberately.

"You said it yourself, _Detective_," Moran said with a chuckle. "I'm mad," he drew out the last syllable, sneering.

"Right, are you going to give us anything, or are you just going to say you did it and you've got no shame? Because I can't bloody take an insanity plea." Lestrade kept tapping the folder with his thumb and forefinger pressed together.

"Why don't you ask your doctor? He's worked with Mister Holmes for quite some time now. Haven't you, pet? _Illuminate_ us, dear Captain." Moran just kept chuckling as he spoke, the rumble in his throat so familiar. John's nose flared and he swallowed hard.

"My God, you really just want to rot in jail, don't you?" John finally spoke after a minute, the space in between filled with tense disgust. Moran let his head fall back against his pillow and sighed.

"There's nothing else."

John chuckled. Moran glanced over at him. Lestrade looked at John, _looked_ at him, and closed his eyes, nodding. He stood up and Moran followed him with his piercing blue eyes. He moved and picked up Moran's hand, slapping a cuff onto it and locking the other cuff to the bed frame. John remained seated, hands folded in his lap, gaze directed at nothing in particular at the ground. Moran's watchful look landed on John, and a steady smile of understanding spread over his face. Lestrade silently turned and left the room, locking the door behind him.

"Are you going to talk to me, then, Doctor?" Moran laid extra bite on talk. John finally met his harsh stare, and kept a blank face as he leaned in a bit closer.

"How could you have known about Sherlock's past?" John spoke with a low, steady voice.

"It isn't hard to work out. Boss did it. Mister Holmes is the kind for danger, is he not? Not unlike yourself," he said, raising a taunting eyebrow at John.

"Why the others? Why not just go after Sherlock?"

"Oh, but that's only half the fun. I wanted to play the game."

"Well, you're not as clever as Moriarty, that's for sure. But I'll give you that you are able to mess with people in the same way," John said.

Moran cocked his head to the side slightly.

"And you, soldier, serve quite the same purpose."

John betrayed himself and showed curiosity.

"You're willing to lock me up in here. So do it, healer man. Fix me. Bind me and throw a cloth over my face like the terrorist you know I am. Show the world what you're really made of."

John dug his nails so hard into the palm of his hand he could've broken the skin.

"I'm not like you."

"Maybe not exactly, but you've got the _potential_."

"I could never do what you did. Never. Not if my life depended on it, and you know that."

"Yes, I know that. Man of Principle. That's your endearing trait. It's your guard. You love the danger out there, and you need something to stop you."

"You don't know me."

"Oh, don't I? The broken army doctor, come home to meet the mysterious consulting detective, to fix him and the world. He fixed you right up, though. The healer man and the sinner man. It reeks, just how predictable you both are."

John bit back the urge.

"Could say the same about you."

"Yes, I suppose you could. You protect yours, I protect mine. Except you stole mine away. Logical conclusion?" He waved the unhindered hand in the air. "Ta da."

"But how did you know about all the others? Were you just going for something random, or was it really all tied together?"

"Don't avoid the subject, Doctor Watson. You know my methods."

"Why would I know the methods of a cold-blooded killer?"

Moran raised his eyebrows at him smugly.

"You know the methods of the great Sherlock Holmes. Thus, you know the methods of all the greatest murderers. So explain to me why I did it, how I did it. Go on," he raised his voice slightly. "Pick me apart. Destroy me. It's what he'd do."

"You're just a sick, lost, animal, looking for some raw form of revenge. You're just mental. You put together some elaborate scheme to hurt because that's all you've ever felt. You're just playing with strings because it's all you know to do."

"Good, good."

"You make machines to inflict harm from afar. You were a sniper, right?"

"Oh, is that a deduction of yours?"

"I'd know a sniper anywhere, but a couple of drug dealers you made very scared and angry also told us."

"Impressive. I think you know enough to understand."

"You just picked something you knew would cause the most pain and twisted it."

"Wonderful. You've really picked up on Holmes' cleverness. I suppose you would, after so much time. We all go a bit insane, in the end, yes? So tell me, which one of you wears the pants, because I always thought-" Moran was cut off by a hand on his throat. Moran's free hand shot up to pluck John's hand off, which was surprisingly easy, because John was recoiling a bit. He straightened up, standing now, and loomed over Moran.

"Tetchy, are we? You wouldn't want to tarnish your lovely new reputation, though." Moran smiled.

John stood with his head held back a bit, looking down his nose at Moran. His gaze flickered over to the IV drip. Moran followed him and his eyebrows raised. "Ohh, Doctor."

John looked back at Moran for what felt like a very long time. Moran was looking at him with a smirk and narrowed eyes. John reached forward and pressed a hand to Moran's mouth, leaning forward a bit while he stretched his arm up and turned off the only source of pain relief Moran had.

"Liberty," he whispered gruffly into Moran's ear, crossing his arms so that the right hand he had just used to turn off the drip could reach to press down on the gunshot wound.

Lestrade looked up from his place against the wall down the hall when he heard the door open and observed John closing it with a click, Moran's folder in his hand. Just at that moment, Mycroft rounded the corner, about to greet Lestrade. John walked toward them, Lestrade watching him carefully, saying his name with a tinge of concern. He walked past Mycroft, pressing the folder against Mycroft's chest, muttering, "he's all yours."

* * *

Lestrade slipped the key into the lock, turning it and releasing the clasp of the cuff, tossing the limp wrist down on the bed. He drew his eyes over Moran, over the patch of blood that had soaked through his hospital gown where the bullet once was embedded in his shoulder. It would be a few hours before the bruises showed, but at least they would blend in a little with the older ones. He looked around for the bins, and grimaced as he pulled the bloodied, bunched up towels out and stuffed them in his pocket. Upon noticing the empty cup on the floor by the bin, he picked it up and replaced it by the pitcher on Moran's bedside table, pouring water into it. He turned the IV drip back on, checking Moran's pulse, and cleared his throat before he popped his head outside the room and beckoned to the nurse changing the linens in the room opposite. "Nurse, this man's stitching popped. I'm afraid he bled a bit from it." The nurse dropped the cloths and nodded, following him back into the room.

* * *

John sat by the clever detective with the funny hat, holding his hand, hesitantly carding the other hand through the mess of dark curls.

"Wake up," he said, softly. "It's time for you to wake up."


	10. Weep Little Lion Man

**I wanted to thank people for the reviews. I can't figure out FF for the life of me, so I was unable to reply to some of them. Thornleaf brought up a mistake I made - Molly isn't married. I just slipped up while I was writing in Mycroft's voice, because I always imagine him being so formal. At least, I'm pretty sure Mycroft said it. If you squint there's some Molly/Lestrade in this chapter, heh. Also, to Thornleaf, thank you very much for all your kind words of encouragement. I will answer one other question: when you said about the pantsuit, I tried to remember my reasoning. I think I was going by the stereotype that posh schools usually enforce a skirt dress code. Honestly, now that you've brought it up, I sound like a fair moron for saying that. Oh well. Thank you for your feedback. As for Lestrade - he's already broken lots of rules just letting Sherlock and John work on cases. I would like to think that when one of his best friends is in a coma, he'd be willing to do something a bit not good. **

* * *

The next day, John arrived early at the hospital, no one around Sherlock's room, and assumed his usual position by the bed, sitting in silence and forgetting about the time.

"John." Lestrade peered in through the door.

"Mm," John nodded and cleared his throat, not really looking at Lestrade.

"He's gone, now. Mycroft…"

Lestrade shifted and placed his hand on the door frame, leaning into it. John looked up, pursing his lips.

"He'll get what he deserves, John. I don't for the life of me know what that is, but he'll get it." Lestrade gave him an understanding look. John smiled almost imperceptibly. "Would you come out for some food or a drink… anything?" Lestrade pleaded. John swallowed and looked down at Sherlock again, closing his eyes.

"Right." He stroked his thumb over Sherlock's hand for a moment before placing it neatly by Sherlock's hip and standing. His fingers scratched at his palms as he walked across the room and followed Lestrade out the door.

"Alright, then?" Lestrade asked.

"Better." John wasn't really better, but he knew he had to say something. Moran was most likely going to suffer for his information. That shouldn't have made John feel better, but at least it eased at the pull of anger.

They ended up in the hospital cafeteria, John not wanting to leave the hospital altogether, and Lestrade settling because he didn't want to argue. He wished he could get John out of the bloody place, but he was just happy that John was doing anything at that point. John, no doubt, wanted to be there for any… developments.

"So," Lestrade began, between bites of his curry. "Mrs. Hudson doing alright?" He winced at his own small talk, but he needed to say _something_.

"I suppose." John felt guilt wash over him as he remembered what he had said to her.

"Good, good…" Lestrade's voice trailed off as he poked with his fork at the rice. "Got any new girlfriends?"

"No." John slowly twirled a noodle of his chow mein in his own fork.

"Ah. The wife and I were thinking of going on vacation at some point. To the country, you know. Nice, calm…"

John continued to stare at his food. "Mm, right. Yeah, good," he muttered.

Lestrade sighed and sat back, dropping his fork.

"John."

John didn't look up.

"Look, John, I- I know it's not much to say I'm sorry. But you can't… there's hope." He looked at John from under his brow, his head bowed a little. John finally glanced up and met his gaze, blinking slowly.

"I know." His jaw tightened.

"If you're thinking that he gave in-"

"No." John said sternly, but quietly.

"Right. 'Cause he didn't. He wouldn't. Not when you're around."

John didn't want to be talking to Lestrade about this. Or anything, really. But definitely not this.

"He's a bloody idiot."

Lestrade chuckled.

"Yeah, he is. But not the same bloody idiot he used to be."

"I know."

"I think I embarrassed him."

John considered Lestrade.

"What do you mean? When?"

"The first time you two met. With the drugs bust. I mean, he gets upset and petulant all the time, but… he never expressed that sort of hesitance or- _remorse_."

"You're saying he didn't want me to know about his past."

"He never talks about it. It's not like he's proud of getting bored and doing stupid things, it's just that's all he knows to do."

"Yeah, well, it doesn't matter. He doesn't even smoke anymore. This was all… it wasn't him."

"Exactly. John, he does care about you. He's a wanker who can't show it, but he does. I've never seen him get so close to someone, look at someone the way he looks at you."

John felt uncomfortable. Why in the Hell was everyone trying to dissect his relationship with Sherlock?

"What," John cleared his throat, speaking low, "are you…"

"I'm only saying, John." Lestrade licked his lips. "I'm sorry, we can - we don't have to talk about…"

John swallowed hard and gripped his fork tightly. Lestrade sighed, going back to picking at his food. They ate in silence before Lestrade awkwardly nodded at John and told him he'd be back later, fiddling with his coat as he stood by their table before attempting a smile and leaving. John sat staring at his half eaten plate for a while, before returning to Sherlock's room.

* * *

_And you could have it all,_

_My empire of dirt,_

_I will let you down,_

_I will make you hurt_

* * *

The white carnations sat in the old, unchanged water, never moving, never breathing too hard. They began to dry up and wilt, the life gone from their withered petals, though their beauty was still boundless. The beauty of something so pure, something so complex yet simple, could never die, could never fade. It could change, become a different kind of beauty, but beauty nonetheless. A wrinkled, tired human was no less beautiful than a brand new baby, it was just a different kind of beauty. The petals may have turned yellow, but it did not taint their existence. The flower would not die, its life would simply be exhaled into its environment, leaving an imprint on the ground where it lay. So many eyes have looked upon it, man and beast, bird and insect. Even the ugliest of ducklings could grow to be a swan. The flowers remained, never being replaced, but rather being forced into the company of younger bunches. That seems the trend, does it not? The oldest in their lives must suffer the companionship of the youngest. The weight of the suffering depended entirely on both parties. The flower could choose to think itself still beautiful, even next to something so boundless in youth. Because something so shamelessly gorgeous does not rely upon age to determine its worth.

So the flowers would sit and soak up the last drops of their water, and the new flowers would bask in the attention of the sunlight, none the wiser to the tint they would achieve after so much bathing. And then when great, sleeping men would wake, the flowers may be knocked to the floor, the vase falling, falling, falling through the air in slow motion, light refracting from the smooth curve of the glass. The flowers would be surrounded by a shower of shards, chipping away at their exterior, but never harming them internally. A hand would be outstretched to catch, but would fail, and the shattering would echo off the wall as feet hurriedly avoided tiny, dangerous glints of light, leftover by the wreckage.

* * *

_Your grace is wasted in your face_

_Your boldness stands alone among the wreck_

_But it was not your fault but mine_

_And it was your heart on the line_

_I really fucked it up this time, didn't I my dear? _

* * *

John sat on the edge of his bed, his hands clasped on his lap, not looking up.

"This is tedious."

"Yes, but it's also painful. More painful than tedious."

"I don't understand."

"Yeah, well, you wouldn't," John replied, bringing a hand up to rub his eyes.

"Why would it upset… you?"

John finally turned.

"Why in God's name wouldn't it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sat next to him, their shoulders and thighs just barely meeting. He looked taken aback.

"I - I… you've always been bothered by things that negatively affect me. But it doesn't concern you, why would it matter?"

"Because it _does_ concern me. Sherlock, how would you feel if I told you I wanted to move out?"

Sherlock blinked at him.

"I don't… know. You wouldn't."

John sighed.

"But if I told you I didn't want this life anymore, that I wanted to leave, what would you do?"

Sherlock looked down at his hands.

"I suppose, I, I would be displeased. I have always believed you were content with our… situation. But I could not stop you."

"You couldn't, or you wouldn't try?"

"I would express my own discontent with your decision, but in the end you have free will, John. You may come and go as you please. It would be rather infuriating if you left and came back more often than you stayed, or left altogether, but I would… understand."

John looked down at the floor and closed his eyes for a moment.

"But why would you let me? You would be upset, I know you would. What if I told you that I had never been happy here?"

Sherlock turned his head toward John but did not look at him, his eyes wide with fear, but the rest of his face blank.

"That would be wrong. You wouldn't lie about that."

"Right, Sherlock, but why wouldn't I lie?"

Sherlock licked his lips.

"Because, you don't lie to harm others. You are a good man. You lie when it is advantageous."

"Right. I lied to get us into Baskerville, I lied to Mr. Prince for our case, I have lied to Mycroft several times, which he most likely knows-"

"You lied about Irene."

"… I was trying to keep you safe."

"Well, I know when you're lying, anyway, so it doesn't matter."

"… the point is," John slowly took Sherlock's hand, "I wouldn't lie to _hurt _you." John looked into Sherlock's eyes. "Why would I try so hard to protect you if I didn't care about you?"

Sherlock considered him carefully. "I don't know. You have always kept me safe. But I don't know why."

"And you've always kept me safe."

"Well, of course."

John laughed airily. "The fact that you say it that way, that's why I care; that's how I know you care."

"What do you mean?"

"You act like the whole world should protect me. As though it is just a truth of everyone's existence. I am always protected."

"Good people should be."

"So why would you understand if I left? If I didn't protect you anymore?"

"Because I am different. I destroy. In the end, I can't protect you from myself."

John shook his head.

"We're both different. I've always found you brilliant, if a complete nutter, and you appreciate my company. You'll never hurt me more than you did when you left."

"I cannot always prevent those circumstances. But if you left, I would be alone. And that is what I deserve."

"No, Sherlock. You wouldn't be alone. You'd have Mrs. Hudson, Molly and Greg."

Sherlock huffed.

"I find relationships tedious when you are not around."

"Because I act as a bloody buffer, you git." Sherlock smiled slightly.

"I wouldn't want you to leave," Sherlock said quietly after a few minutes.

"And I'm not going to. And neither are you. We'll stay right here." John motioned to his room.

Sherlock turned to him fully and held his hand tighter.

"But I'm not here, John. I'm still somewhere dark and lonely."

John looked scared.

"No, but, you can be here. What can I do to help you?"

"You have to wake up, John."

John was awakened by a beeping on the monitor, his head resting in the palm of Sherlock's hand. He breathed in deeply and sat up, checking his watch. Had he really fallen asleep for over an hour? Glancing over to the monitor, he noticed a flashing light and a new staggered line darting across the screen, representing electrical activity in the brain. John stood, kicking the chair back slightly and ran a hand over the line.

"Sherlock." He leaned over the tall man and used his thumb to carefully open Sherlock's eyes, checking for any responsiveness, while he kept a hand on Sherlock's. He could feel the slightest twitches in reply to his gentle squeeze. "Sherlock, please." He looked into Sherlock's eyes. They were distant, not focusing on anything, which was to be expected. But the_ color_.

Molly and Lestrade opened the door to the room, a nurse behind them, beckoning them in. They were chatting together when they saw John looming over Sherlock.

"Doctor Watson, has he awoken?" The nurse came in, approaching the monitor. As she did, Sherlock's body started twitching more, and then it convulsed, and John was startled from his position, knocking over the vase of carnations. Molly gasped, reaching out to John, and the nurse rushed over to Sherlock, pushing the aid button and holding down his body. "Get out!" She directed toward John, who was similarly trying to control Sherlock's movement. "You can't bloody be in here, Doctor, go!"

"He's seizing, you have-"

"Detective, please!" The nurse pleaded with Lestrade, as he was already moving. He tried to grab John by the arm, avoiding the broken vase; Molly, wide-eyed, being ushered out by another nurse. John was resisting.

"No, no let me-" he tried to push forward to go to Sherlock's side, but Lestrade and another nurse teamed up on him and he was pulled out the door as voices became difficult to discern, everyone shouting at each other for different instruments and injections.

When they got to the hallway, John tried to look through the window but a nurse drew the shades, and he fell back against the wall, Lestrade still holding him by the arm.

"Jesus-" John let out as he breathed heavily, closing his eyes, his whole body tired, his legs wanting to give out.

"They'll take care of him, John, please, just-" Lestrade tried to hold him up but John sank to the ground anyway, scrubbing his face with his hand, his eyes burning, head hurting. "God, you need proper sleep, John." Lestrade knelt down by him and rubbed his shoulder.

"Go aw-" John's breath caught and he whimpered slightly, clenching his jaw, shaking his head. Molly bent over and whispered to Lestrade, pulling him away, and they walked down the corridor together. John thunked his head against the wall, unable to see the flurry of nurses' hands treating the detective as he seized.

After a few minutes, Molly and Lestrade returned with a paper cup of water, forcing John to sip it down. They all sat down against the wall, staring at nothing in particular across the hall. Some amount of time passed before most of the nurses came out, pulling the bed containing Sherlock with them. The nurse that had brought Lestrade and Molly in stood in front of them. Lestrade and Molly hastily stood, looking to her, then Sherlock. John couldn't stand.

"He's stabilized, now. We're taking him to get a CT scan. We'll let you know what the results are."

The three friends nodded, slumped back against the wall, and waited in silence.


	11. You're Coming Back For Me

**Note: Sorry for how long this took. I had a very busy couple of weeks, going to Comic Con, getting sick, getting depressed, and getting back into the groove of things. If anyone is overly interested in my experience at SDCC, you can PM me and I'll send you links to pictures and stories I have. Thank you for your patience. Also, at the end of this fic, I will include a playlist with the songs and poems used for titles and whatnot, because someone expressed how much they were enjoying the interludes. Warning for this chapter: way too corny. Writer's block truly sucks, haha. Hope it's bearable. Thanks.**

* * *

The scans would take a while, and the nurses were to bring John to Sherlock's new room later - where he would be more closely monitored- so there was time for John to sit in silence, Molly next to him, watching him closely. Lestrade was speaking to one of the nurses when the Chief Superintendent rang.

"Chief, yes, hello," Lestrade answered. "Yes, they took him- no, I don't- no, they didn't tell me. The man was just… insane. He just pulled together nearly unrelated threads to get to us, to get to-…well," Lestrade paused, sighing, "you know." Another pause. "No, no, I'm afraid not. He -" Lestrade looked in John's direction and bit his lip, turning the corner to be out of earshot. "He sort of woke up, but then he had a seizure. I-" he broke off, licking his lips and listening. "I understand, Chief, but this is Sherlock Holmes, he's a friend and- …well no, no he isn't _that_, but- look, Chief, I'd really appreciate being allowed-… yes, I realize that. Yes. But, Chief, can I just say- no, please, look. They _just_ got each other back, Chief. And now- I need to be here…. I'm sorry?" Lestrade blanched and lowered his voice. "Yessir, alright. Loud and clear." He hung up his mobile and leaned against a nearby wall, tilting his head back into it, sighing. _Please forgive me, John_, he thought.

Rounding the corner, Lestrade saw John sitting alone, stoic. _Bloody strong soldier_, Lestrade thought, wishing he didn't really know how John felt. He stepped toward John and caught his attention.

"John, I've, uh," he carded a hand through his hair, clearing his throat. "I've got to go. I'll try to be back some time tomorrow. I'm sorry. The Chief…" he chewed his lip and let his hands fall to his sides. "I've got to go." John nodded at him.

"Yeah, fine," John responded, curtly. Lestrade looked around for a moment for Molly.

"Is Molly…?"

"Went to talk to someone," John answered. Lestrade nodded and breathed in deeply.

"Right," Lestrade said, slowly, before he smiled weakly at John and walked down the hall. John sat, staring at the wall opposite for a while, the silence in between conversation becoming defeaning. But then, even the conversation was deafening. John was roused from his absent gaze at the wall when his mobile beeped.

_I HEARD WHAT HAPPENED. I'M SORRY, JOHN. HOW ARE YOU HOLDING UP?_

_ - MS_

John stared at the text for a moment before registering what it was saying and who it was from. He continued to stare at the message, unsure what to reply with.

_YEAH, ALRIGHT. THANKS, MIKE. JUST WAITING, NOW._

_ - JW_

Mike replied almost instantly. John wondered if he should just get up the energy to call him, but he decided it didn't matter.

_LET ME KNOW IF YOU NEED ANYTHING. I'M SURE HE'LL BE OKAY, JOHN. HE ALWAYS IS._

_ - MS_

John tapped off a "thanks" in reply, before pocketing his phone and slumping against the wall again. He watched the clock on the wall tick off the same measurement of time over, and over, not actually tracking what amount of time it was measuring. Molly appeared at his side, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry that took so long, I-I got caught up speaking with one of the nurses and-" Molly spoke with an unsettled tone.

"It's fine, Molly. What did the nurses say?" John patted her hand briefly, then scooted over so she could join him on the bench.

"We'll be able to see him in just a bit. He's been assigned to this new doctor- supposed to be quite good - they're running tests on him but…He's- he's slowly becoming more responsive, John. It's _good_ news."

"Then why are you white knuckling," he spoke between breaths, smiling tightly, "the edge of this bench?" John motioned to her hand, which was clasped tightly to the bench. She drew in a quick breath and shook her head as he gave her a knowing look, and she tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear.

"He'll probably have experienced some memory loss, and- oh, John. You know all of this." She held her head in her hand, looking at him from the side and frowning.

"Maybe," he responded, leaning back slightly, "but that doesn't mean Sherlock won't surprise us all, yet again."

"Are you truly still surprised by him?" John looked at her and let out a short chuckle.

"He did come back from the bloody _dead_. But then," he paused, looking down at his shoes, scraping the pads of his fingers on his palms. "I suppose even that seems normal for him, like something he'd just _do_." He shook his head the slightest bit and looked back at Molly, who was studying him carefully.

"He'll always come back to you, John," she finally said after several minutes of silence. Before John could say anything in response, a nurse came up to them.

"Doctor Watson, if you could come with me?" she held a clipboard under her arm, another in her hand, and a styrofoam cup of coffee in the other hand.

"How is he?" John asked as he stood, and started following, the nurse nodding to Molly to join them.

"We're running some tests on Mr. Holmes. It will allow us to gauge his cognitive capacity. You will be able to watch outside his room for now," she explained as she led them down the corridor. They made it to the ICU, where Sherlock was in a room surrounded by monitors. John felt his heart pick up a little when he noticed the intubation tube was no longer coming out of Sherlock like some alien attachment, and all of the proper lines were spiking on the screens by his bed.

The nurse nodded to him and walked briskly further down the corridor and into another room, leaving John and Molly outside the window, to stare in at the sleeping detective. He was truly sleeping, this time, though. He was _sleeping_, but his brain was so, so very awake. John heard talking from across the hall as a doctor stepped out of another unit with a nurse.

"…I simply cannot take this case, please pass the paperwork on to Doctor Smith…" John turned to see a man hand a file to a nurse and approach him with a folder. He was tall, about as tall as Sherlock, with curly hair, the color teetering between slightly ginger and blond. His face was thin, much like his body; his cheekbones pronounced like Sherlock's, but the angles were less harsh. Despite his bone structure, his face had a naturally kinder look to it than Sherlock's. His presence struck John. "You must be Doctor Watson, yes?" The doctor's voice was gentle, posh, but did not hold the arrogance that John often heard in Sherlock's or Mycroft's drawl. "Here's the update on Mr. Holmes' charts, I'm terribly sorry, but I must go tend to another patient. A different doctor will be along to explain Mr. Holmes' new treatment plan," the doctor spoke hurriedly, but with concern and regret in his voice. John opened his mouth to speak, but the man was already walking away. He looked down at the charts in the folder.

PATIENT: SHERLOCK HOLMES

DOCTOR: VICTOR T. TREVOR

John blanched and the note at the bottom of the page caught his attention. The writing was clear, though it bore the usual speed and sloppy lines of a doctor's handwriting.

DOCTOR'S NOTES: He needs a good doctor, now.

John stared at the three lines of print for a few seconds before he looked up in the direction of the doctor once more.

"Wait…" he said, rather more weakly than he intended. Molly touched his arm.

"What's wrong, John?"

John's dazed eyes continued to follow the blond haired man until he rounded the corner, and then he looked back down at the chart.

_"He was -"_

_"Your friend?"_

_"My only friend."_

_"Who left you."_

Molly prodded him a few more times, before John just shook his head and smiled tightly, briefly, at her, her eyes on the chart.

"I wonder why he couldn't take the case…" Molly's quiet voice broke through John's thoughts.

John blinked slowly and offered, "probably, just, too many to deal with." He then let the hand holding the folder fall to his side, and Molly turned back to the window.

"What does the chart say?" John's gaze was fixed again on Sherlock, and he clenched his jaw, his grasp on the folder tightening.

"I.." he looked at it again, clumsily flipping through the first few pages.

"It says that we treated him with Lorazepam for the seizure, and a dose of Naloxene, in an attempt to counteract the drug-induced aspect of his coma," a voice behind John offered, quickly. John blinked at the woman he had just turned to face.

"Sorry, are you the-"

"New doctor, yes. Doctor Smith. Let's see, Mr. Holmes. You're Mr. Watson, yes? Oh, my apologies, _Doctor_ Watson. Right. I'll be taking over for Doctor Trevor. He was unfortunately unable to take on the case. I hope that's alright. Now, we're starting Mr. Holmes on a batch of standard tests. We're going to do another CT scan after he's recovered a bit more. So far, we've only had physical responses, such as the squeezing of hands, etcetera, no verbal response. But, that's rather normal. He should be capable of forming complete sentences and responding appropriately to questions and the like very soon. He will most likely not remember the events preceding his injuries, though. His wounds are healing fairly well, although he'll have to keep his shoulder in a sling for a few weeks while that bullet hole heals up. We won't know the extent of what the coma has damaged until we can thoroughly assess his capabilities. However, he's doing better, and we are optimistic. Now, I'm going to get to work, if you don't mind; busy day. I'll be conducting the first round of tests and then the nurses will take over on ensuring Mr. Holmes doesn't experience any more seizures or other adverse reactions to anything. It was very nice to meet you two, if you'll excuse me," Doctor Smith fired off an explanation for the current state of things at a rate that could, at times, cause even Sherlock Holmes to pause. She had shaken John's and Molly's hands and nodded at them enthusiastically while she spoke, and then nudged past them after she bid them adieu. John and Molly simply looked back at her, dumbfounded, nodding slightly. John would later figure that Doctor Smith had succumbed to the temptations the nurse who brought them to Sherlock's room had - coffee. Just…_ more_ of it, than the nurse.

John and Molly's gazes followed Doctor Smith as she stepped into Sherlock's room and went to work with the nurses tending to the detective. They were attaching electrodes to Sherlock, taking note of various readings off the monitors, checking the different medications currently being pumped into Sherlock. John and Molly watched almost numbly as the doctor went about her job, until John looked back at the chart, flipping through to the printouts of the CT scan. He studied it and was mildly comforted by the miniscule amount of damage it presented. But no manner of scan would wholly reassure him until the detective was back in 221B, yelling at John about mold cultures while John tapped away at his blog, smiling.


	12. If I Apologised

_If I apologised_

_It wouldn't make it all unhappen_

_Wouldn't make the darkness go away_

_If I apologised_

_It wouldn't mean I was forgiven_

_Wouldn't mean you wanted me to stay_

_If I apologised_

_We could be the perfect couple_

_Well we could, but only in my mind_

* * *

John shifted slightly in the uncomfortable plastic dip of the chair, clutching the folder between the fingers and palm of his left hand. The sign on the door was made hastily - with a felt tip pen - the first _V_ made carefully, then, the _i_ following in sloppy, misaligned placements of ink as though the writer gave up as soon as they began. John had been with Sherlock too long _not_ to notice these things, though he added the shame that the name had not been completed with the same finesse it started with; as though the story was uncared for.

Checking his watch again - the third time in the past ten minutes - John considered binning the entire idea. Oh, he knew, _knew_ how- no, but he _needed_ to do it. Or maybe it was just…

He cared too much to dither on the matters of privacy. He had time yet to re-cultivate his principled soul.

The blonde haired doctor rounded the corner and paused when he laid eyes on his replacement.

Replacement?

No.

He might have felt that way.

John winced.

"Can I help you?" Doctor Trevor asked, after re-establishing his air of professionalism. John stood, but did not move forward. Doctor Trevor motioned toward the folder in his hand. "Ah, is it about-" he fixed his stance to be more upright, "-Mr. Holmes?"

John gave him a pleading look.

"I could speak to you for a moment if you have a question about the file, but I'm really not his doctor anymore, I can't-"

"I know how wildly inappropriate this is." John stated, measuring his breathing. Doctor Trevor breathed in deeply and scratched nervously at a spot on his inner forearm. John studied Doctor Trevor's resolute lack of eye contact. After a few moments, Doctor Trevor licked his lips and wrapped his long, slim fingers around the office door handle.

"It is my professional opinion that he will recover in time, and you will be able to inquire as to his previous-"

"And what about your unprofessional opinion?" John pursed his lips, crossing his left arm over his chest and resting his right on the side of his balled fist, dragging his forefinger along his upper lip.

Doctor Trevor chuckled almost imperceptibly.

"You're a doctor. Tell me, what would you say?"

"Piss off." John didn't miss a beat.

"Good to know he found someone with better resolve." Doctor Trevor raised his eyebrows at John.

"Not in the least," John replied, shaking his head slightly.

"Why did you stop practising?"

"What told you I stopped?"

"The same thing that makes you ask _what_ instead of _who_."

John tipped his head back slightly, swallowing.

"Then you have your answer."

"But you are highly trained. You stopped practising complicated medicine."

"I worked surgery after the war. Not glamorous, but gets the job done."

"And which job would that be?"

"No," John shook his head, laughing lightly, "I'm not playing this. I've done this before. I'm sorry for wasting your time, doctor. I won't bother trying to work out yet another story of Sherlock's." John let his hands fall to his sides and turned to walk away.

"You must think me an awful person, Doctor Watson," Doctor Trevor called out. John stopped and hung his head, turning slowly on his heels. He crossed his arms again and made eye contact with Doctor Trevor.

"No, Doctor Trevor," he sighed, and was about to continue when Doctor Trevor interrupted him.

"Please, Victor," he gave him an apologetic look.

"Victor. Right." John pursed his lips. "I don't think you're an awful person. I think you did what you had to do."

"And is that what you're doing, now? What you have to do? How much did he even tell you?"

"Well, obviously, you know Sherlock. He doesn't explain much about himself."

"You're different, though."

John scratched his head. "I don't know. I just know I owe him a lot."

Victor winced visibly.

"I did care about him a lot. I just-"

"Didn't care enough to take the needle-"

"John." Victor implored. John swallowed.

"Right. What would you say if I asked you to apologize." John kept his glare trained on Victor's darting eyes.

"I…"

"I came after you, despite knowing to let sleeping dogs lie. Because, yeah, maybe I am different. Maybe I'm the only mad arsed person alive who can tolerate and take care of that imbecile at his worst times. But I am doing this for _him_. He needs-"

"You."

John stopped, huffing out a breath.

"Don't turn this back around on me. I'm sure you know more than you're letting on," John said, his tone low, stern.

"I may have read a few articles, yes. Not for being wont to do so - mostly on accident. I know you've been with him for a while, and I know that means you're staying. He doesn't need me begging on my knees. He just needs you. That's all. Sherlock is far simpler than anyone could ever imagine."

"Oh, couldn't I? So, then, tell me; did you read the part about him jumping from a rooftop to save his friends, or the part about him being a fraud?" John pursed his lips and touched his forefinger to his mouth, frowning.

Victor swallowed hard and clenched a fist.

"Please-"

"Please, what? You want a man who clearly valued his friends more than anyone could think to go about his life believing he just _wasn't good enough_?"

"I had hoped that's what you were there for." Victor said, his voice calm and steady.

John narrowed his eyes and shook his head, laughing, moving to walk away.

Victor opened his mouth to say something, but resigned himself to silence and turned to go into his room.

* * *

_And every demon wants his pound of flesh_

_But I like to keep some things to myself_

_I like to keep my issues drawn_

_It's always darkest before the dawn_

_Shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, oh whoa_

_And it's hard to dance, with the devil on your back_

_So shake him off, oh whoa_

* * *

"Doctor Watson, you have impeccable timing," Doctor Smith said as she emerged from Sherlock's unit. "He's just waking up from that last round of morphine. He's making progress, I think he'll start forming short sentences, soon. Go on," she urged him into the room. John nodded to her and walked in, still heavy-hearted at the sight of all the monitors around Sherlock that were measuring brain waves and movement. Molly would not be back for hours, as she had to return to the morgue. John could sit with Sherlock in silence until the tall, good detective could speak.

John cleared his throat, standing a few feet from Sherlock's bedside. The alabaster man was even thinner than he used to be, even paler, but he was _breathing_. John moved over to the chair by the corner of the wall and pulled it up next to the bed. He sat heavily, and watched the slow, steady intake of breath stir the blankets covering his best friend. Slightly hesitant, he reached out a hand and covered Sherlock's own with it. He should've been surprised by the warmth emanating from the cold, white skin, but he wasn't. Touching that hand, he felt the same warmth he had felt when running alongside him to escape the police, the same warmth in the cab when their fingers just barely brushed past each other, the same warmth when Sherlock had grabbed him by the arm to tell him _I've just got one_. Just got one. John clenched his jaw and leaned forward, resting his head on Sherlock's hip. Dear _God_, he was tired. He could just… take a quick nap. Fall asleep to the soothing warmth of Sherlock's body and the reassuring rise and fall of his chest. The chest that no longer needed help from an alien tube, no longer covered in quite so many wires. The alien wires and tubes that had bit at John's heart as he remembered everything before… before. The tubes couldn't make Sherlock less human if they became sentient and wanted to. John closed his eyes.

"Mmph."

John frowned into the blankets covering Sherlock.

A slight cough.

"Joh…"

John had lifted his head, curled his hand around Sherlock's and moved the other to Sherlock's shoulder before he even realized what he was doing. Sherlock moved his head, with effort, the slightest bit to face John, his eyes just barely open, mouth moving almost imperceptibly.

John Watson was in the war. He was a fighter, a healer, a protector. He watched people walk to their deaths with a heavy heart, but a calm face, steadying his breathing whilst his heart tried to leap out of his chest. He had watched Sherlock jump from a building, and had collapsed almost silently in front of him, no coherent sentences finding their way out of his mouth. But he had also moved on, and he had regained his composure, regained his strength. So, when John Watson's best friend is finally recovering from a coma, a seizure, and the toxic surge of drugs through his blood, and is finally opening his mouth to say the first word he has said in weeks - which appears to be a hopeful attempt at John's own name - what else would John Watson do in response except-

"Oh, God, Sherlock. Hey, hey. You alright? You alright? Don't move, no, it's ok, you're ok, Jesus. Do you need water? You need water. You probably can't eat yet, what do the nurses have you on… all sorts of nauseating medicines, no doubt. You should-"

Sherlock gripped John's hand back and immediately, John was silenced for a moment.

"Sherlock. Are you alright?" he asked, quietly. Because that was all that actually _needed_ saying, it's just that John Watson's soldier brain had finally decided that a plethora of words were necessary where only a smile and a nod most likely would've done. But John Watson was different, wasn't he?

Sherlock coughed again slightly, heavy-lidded eyes trying to concentrate on John as he reached into the air, mumbling, "m…more..morphnn..", to which John only laughed and said, "not in your wildest."

And so, it was again, that they were John and Sherlock.


	13. It's Only A Change of Time

**Haha**

**I am a massive liar and a horrible author and why did any of you not throttle me from the beginning and tell me to stop before I butchered-**  
**too late.**  
**Don't think I have enough apologies to give anymore. I just suck, sorry. I don't know what's going on with this chapter, Sherlock is being impossible, yadadeedoo.**  
**Ah, also, if any of you were wondering (aha), yes, I was imagining Tom as Victor. I described him that way, but ultimately, it's up to you who he is. **  
**LE WARNING: **  
**There will be some description of panic attacks in here, so just, you know, tread with caution. There be dragons.**

**I read this enough times to hate it, but if there are any grammar errors or otherwise, let me know. I cannot edit my own shit, ugh.**

* * *

_I was thirsty so I drank_

_though it was salt water_

_there was something about the way_

_it tasted so familiar_

* * *

"Sherlock, no, you can't-"

"I need to get out of this _bed_, John. Or would you prefer I shoot the _hospital_ wall?"

"You don't even have a sodding gun- no, get back _down_, there," John gently pushed Sherlock back onto his pillow, mindful of the sling.

"I could get one."

"No, you couldn't."

"You would get one for me."

"Why on earth would I smuggle in a gun for you to shoot the bloody wall?"

"Because I asked nicely, and you'd take pity on me. Look, John, look. Take pity," Sherlock said with a puppy dog face. John raised an eyebrow at him, and Sherlock huffed. "It was worth a try."

John chuckled, replacing the tray attached to the bed over Sherlock's torso so he could reach his laptop.

"You know, you'll be out soon enough. Working on your laptop is only going to tire you out."

Sherlock gave him a look that could kill a corpse.

"I _need_ to do _something_. The nurses-" Sherlock cut himself off and went quiet. John paused where he was pouring more water into Sherlock's cup, frowning at him.

"What did the nurses do?" Sherlock sniffed slightly.

"They… tried to give me a puzzle book," Sherlock replied, quietly. John tried to hide a smile behind his hand, but evidently didn't succeed when Sherlock sneered at him. "Oh, shut up."

"Your petulance will be your undoing," John said with a chuckle. "Anyway, you need to stay in bed a while longer. Doctor Smith will have my neck if I let you roam about after you went arse over tits the other day. Your motor coordination is still recovering."

"It was a minor slip…" Sherlock pointed out, keeping his concentration on the computer screen.

"Mm, right, because falling over a counter onto the ground when you're trying to steal lab equipment is just a little tip on the scale of slip to tumble. You may remember that Mycroft doesn't actually have never-ending authority, here. He's going to get tired of your behavior, soon. Would you like for your first case back to be one of his?"

Sherlock stayed silent, but sank lower into the bed with a minute huff.

"That's what I thought." John said, patting Sherlock on the shoulder. "I'll just be a minute, gonna grab a cuppa," John added as he took the empty styrofoam cup from earlier that morning to the bin, then emerged from the room, only to run into Doctor Smith.

"How's he doing today, Doctor Watson?" Doctor Smith said, as her eyes roved over the charts she held.

"Good, yeah. Trying to make his great escape to the land of the fully-functioning, but that's just Sherlock."

"From what you and your friends have told me, that's a sign he'll be all well in no time," Doctor Smith offered with a smile, finally looking up from the charts.

"If you're going to go check on him, just-" John paused for a moment, searching for words, "-he's lying if he tells you the pain is excruciating. Don't up the morphine," John said, finally, leaning in slightly in the hopes Sherlock wouldn't see out the window.

"Don't worry, doctor, I'm no novice when it comes to patients wanting more drugs. He should have just enough for the shoulder and the concussion. I just thank god he didn't pop any stitching with that little stint of his," Doctor Smith said, emphasizing 'stint', in a tone meant to chide John.

"I was genuinely convinced he was going to the loo. I apologize for that. How's that nurse, what's her name, Mary?"

"She's fine. The- uh… black eye is healing." Doctor Smith winced, slightly, then shook her head and smiled at John. "I'll just check in on him, you go do what you were off out for," she said, and was through Sherlock's door in a flash. John pinched the bridge of his nose, remembering how Sherlock had decided to take out his frustration on not being able to do an experiment necessary for a case Lestrade gave him - at the behest of no one, simply out of Lestrade's guilty heart - by promptly punching a nurse who first tried to lower his morphine dose, and then prevent him from getting out of bed. Several times. Finally threatening with restraints. John decided he had better hurry on with the cuppa.

On his way to the cafe, John ran (quite literally) into Mike Stamford.

"John, hey, I was-"

"Mike, yes, hi, good to see you. Sorry about-" John broke off as he helped Mike adjust some files he was carrying in his arms, upset by their collision.

"Not at all, we weren't looking where we were going, were we? I was actually just going to see you and Sherlock. I-" Mike paused and winced slightly. "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner, I got your text last week and I've just been busy. It's midterms right now and I have so many tests to grade and-"

"Mike, Mike, it's fine," John reassured with dismissive hand gestures.

"So, how is he?" Mike asked at length.

"He's uh, he's good. He's recovering pretty quickly."

"And you?"

John looked at his shoes for a moment, licking his lips, then squinted at Mike. "I'm…I'm good. It's good." Mike studied him and quirked a half-smile before nodding to the cafe.

"Cuppa and you can fill me in?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure."

"So, how are the students?"

"Oh, you know, eager and fast-paced. Obnoxious twats," Mike chuckled. John snorted and Mike silently registered the sincerity of that slight laugh compared to the first time they reconnected after the war.

"John, if I didn't know any better, I'd say Sherlock has done you just as much good as you have him."

John licked his lips and cleared his throat, peering off to the side for a moment. "I'm never bored," they both laughed.

"You two are equal amounts of daft, aren't you?" John smiled. "You're just meant for each other," Mike said casually, taking a sip of his tea. John blinked at him and busied himself with his own tea, chewing his lip. "He's my best friend," John said, quietly.

"The John I know gets on with everyone. But I've never known you to have a best friend." Mike watched John pick at his fingernail, their gazes finally meeting once again. John cleared his throat.

"I guess I'm just as mad as him, huh?" John finally said.

"I think you're just good enough," Mike said, with an appreciative look.

"Oh, yeah, well, I mean- I can't imagine why he didn't have more friends before," John responded, sarcastically. Mike shook his head and huffed with an air of disbelief.

"So… they got the bastard," Mike said, triumphantly, though with slight hesitance, after a few moments of silence.

"Mm," John murmured.

"Does… Sherlock remember?"

"Some. He remembers the case. Remembers some of the day. Some-" John paused, swallowed, "some of the loss is a blessing," John said, curtly. Mike nodded slowly. "In terms of recovery, he was able to speak and move a bit within a few days of waking up. His motor coordination still needs work, but he's got his lip back." Mike smiled, knowing.

"Then he must be all himself again."

"Yeah," John said, slowly. "Yes."

"What're they going to do about the… him?"

"Sherlock's brother took him away," John said, making a shh-ing motion with his forefinger. Mike smiled smugly.

"Good."

"Yes."

"But Sherlock's okay, yeah? You know…"

"He is. I mean," John pursed his lips. "Good days, bad days. When the morphine kicks in he's best." They smile. "Sometimes," John grimaced, "Sometimes he will stare off for a while. Not unusual for him, but I can tell its hard for him to have… not been the one, you know?"

"Sure, sure."

"It'll be a while before he fully gets past it. Not that he talks about it."

"You just know."

"Right."

"That's what best friends are for, yeah?"

"I suppose so," John smiles slightly.

"Sherlock, you've got a visitor," John spoke as he walked into Sherlock's room. Sherlock looked up from where he was lying lazily, in an obvious sulk.

"John, get your gun and shoot me in the head. It'll be quick," Sherlock moaned.

"Ah, not going to do that. But-" John urged Mike over to Sherlock, who perked up a bit.

"Mike, good, tell John to listen to me."

"Oh, Sherlock, I think I'd prefer you stay very much alive, mate. How are you feeling?" Mike asked.

"Ugh, bored," Sherlock replied, his head lolling to the side.

"That just means you're having a good day." John said to Sherlock.

"Good days involve serial killers, John," Sherlock groused, before he winced and looked away. Mike glanced to John who was staring at the wall.

"So…going to go back to working on cases soon?" Mike asked, hoping to alleviate the tension in the room.

"He- the detective we work with gave him some moderately easy cases," John responded for Sherlock, his tone somewhat sarcastic on '_moderately_'. "Just so Sherlock could get started as soon as possible."

"They have all proven unsurprisingly to be child's play," Sherlock sniffed.

John rolled his eyes. He remembered when Lestrade had come to visit just days after Sherlock woke up the week before, folders in hand, a hesitant look of complete relief spreading across his face as John let him alone with Sherlock for a few minutes. John had tried not to watch through the window, but he may have seen Sherlock (still mostly weak) clasping Lestrade's hand on top of the folder. Lestrade had hung his head and smiled, chortled about something, causing Sherlock to sneer (resulting in a few quick back and forth quips) and then he must have said something unsettling, because Sherlock clenched his jaw and didn't look at Lestrade. After a few minutes of silence Sherlock had muttered something and Lestrade had sat up straighter, at first shaking his head and frowning, cut off by a remark from Sherlock that appeared harsh before he, too, broke off and looked down at his hands. Lestrade had said something with deliberation before tapping the folders and smiling tightly. Patting Sherlock on the shoulder, he had gotten up to leave, and John surreptitiously moved away from the window.

Lestrade had then found him with his back to Sherlock's room, awkwardly tapping at his phone (pretending to text). He had said his pleasantries and admitted he had to go back to work, but that he'd visit again soon. John understood.

"Well, don't worry, you'll be back to terrorizing survived victims and the entire Met in just a few days, I expect," John said as he crossed his arms.

"Oh, is that true? And here I thought I was to be confined to a bed for all eternity," Sherlock snapped.

"You are; I just know you'll terrorize the entire staff until you get your way." Sherlock smiled sideways at that. Mike shook his head and watched from the sidelines. It was like when he first introduced these two mad men, except now they were just an old married couple. That thought should have startled Mike more than it did; nevertheless, he kept it to himself.

"Well, I'd best be off. It was good seeing you too. I had better see you back on the streets, soon, keeping those killers behind bars," he said, eyebrow cocked, and winked as he left. John nodded him on and Sherlock smiled briefly.

"So, when _are_ you planning your great escape?"

"What?" Sherlock looked up to John, who seemed to be examining his fingernails.

"Oh, don't think I don't notice when you get that look."

"What look?"

"The look you have when you're going to try something stupid and potentially illegal."

"I fail to understand your point, John. This is my face, I don't know what I'm doing with it."

"Exactly."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "Perhaps if I wasn't treated like such an invalid here, I could be more productive, instead of having my brain sit here and rot like-"

"Oh, come on, Greg gave you a folder full of cases. You're just looking for something to complain about. Since when have you not loved being waited on hand and foot?" John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Doctor Smith has already said she'll discharge you early. Of course, this means I have to make sure you're careful with that bloody shoulder. They'll no doubt run a few more tests and then you'll be able to send me off on hunts for clues because every bloody case is always below a seven." John sat down next to Sherlock's bed, and Sherlock muttered something. "What was that?"

"I'd go out on a five right now if I could," Sherlock raised his voice from his previous murmur, and John easily detected the derisiveness. John huffed out a laugh and patted the folder on the bedside table.

"Alright, then, there must be something interesting here. At least tell me what you've solved." Sherlock rolled his eyes but took the folder from John and swiftly dispensed a few documents, rattling out strings of deductions he had made. John nodded here and there and grimaced at descriptions of assaults.

"…and then there is the one about the hair stylist being murdered with his own clippers, but that was obviously his best client, based on the fact he kept that particular pair locked up. Not sure why he would, possibly pride over it being a nice pair, more likely the chance of, I suppose, being murdered with your own equipment, but…" Sherlock spoke rapidly and made dismissive hand gestures here and there, raising his eyebrows in sarcasm at some remarks. John laughed a few times, making short quips about an observation Sherlock made that could be applied to himself, in response to which Sherlock would side-eye John and mutter that _that_ wasn't the point. Once Sherlock got through them all he sunk back into his pillow and huffed.

"Well, you've not lost your edge, then," John stated, rearranging files. He had gotten past the glamorous point in their relationship, taking every clever deduction Sherlock made as just another walk in the park. Still, he couldn't help but point out the obvious: Sherlock was still as brilliant as ever. John knew in the back of his mind that Sherlock needed to be allowed to show off, especially right now.

Sherlock grunted, "dull," and went back to sulking.

"Nothing on the blog?"

"Just mindless drivel people are coming up with in an effort to use me as their sniffer dog. Honestly, John, do people still think I'm dead, because this is absurd."

John shifted and pursed his lips. "No," he breathed, "no, they don't. But we have been a bit…" John cleared his throat, "preoccupied."

"You've not updated-"

"Well, no, Sherlock, I kind of thought that waiting for you to wake up from a bloody coma-" John cut himself off clenched his jaw. "As I said. Preoccupied. Get some rest." He stood and turned to go.

"Where are you going?"

"I need another cuppa."

"…Could you get me one?"

John sighed and nodded. "Yeah, of course."

John went to the bathroom, stood in front of the mirror, and closed his eyes, standing perfectly still for sixty seconds. When he opened them again, he swallowed thickly and meticulously washed his hands. Upon his return to Sherlock's room, Sherlock opened his mouth and started to ask what took him so long, but caught himself and brushed it off, changing the subject to a "simply ridiculous" comment he had found on his website.

"Alright, there you go, don't stretch it too much," John said as he helped Sherlock into a night shirt.

"For God's sake, I am not a child, I can do this m- ow, hey," Sherlock flinched and pulled back after struggling slightly against John and pulling on his stitches a little.

"You were saying?" John finished pulling Sherlock's arm through the sleeve and raised an eyebrow at him. Sherlock grumbled about his body being useless transport, and John stepped back, scratching an eyebrow with his forefinger. "Well, I suppose I'll let you sleep, then. If you even will."

"Yes." Sherlock stood awkwardly in his room, fingers of one hand tapping on his thigh.

John nodded and was almost out of the room when Sherlock called after him.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you," Sherlock said, the corner of his lip twitching slightly as he said it, as though the statement was awkward on his tongue.

"Mm. Welcome. Goodnight," John said as he closed the door.

John laid down heavily on his bed. They had left the hospital just a few hours earlier, gotten takeaway, and John had had to help Sherlock here and there, making sure he didn't pop a stitch or do anything too hastily. Lying in a hospital bed for a couple weeks certainly wears away at one's physical abilities rather quickly.

Despite being as tired as he was, John could not sleep. He was a bit worried, really. He'd never witnessed Sherlock recovering from anything of this sort, and he knew Sherlock wasn't like most victims.

But, then, what _was_ he like? He seemed a bit vulnerable, which was definitely not Sherlock.

As soon as his mind flashed past the concept of a vulnerable Sherlock, he remembered Irene. What were the differences? He was fairly convinced at this point that Sherlock didn't feel things the way most others did. That did not, however, mean he was incapable of it. It just meant he… didn't know how to deal with it, perhaps. Lestrade had said Sherlock seemed to care more for John than anyone else. What was John supposed to make of that? It wasn't…even definable.

Sherlock liked a challenge. Having someone surprise him and prove him wrong about someth-

_oh._

John scrubbed his face with his hand. He, Irene, Moriarty and Moran had all done something different to Sherlock. But now, two of those four were dead and one was off, God know's where, and so John was standing in the wreckage. Piles of corpses in Sherlock's mind surrounded John and now what? They didn't _talk_ about things, how could John ever-

there was a thud downstairs and John heard a crash, some swearing, and he was already at the foot of the stairs before he really knew what his legs were doing.

"Oh, Jesus, Sherlock, you alright?" John rushed over to Sherlock, who was sitting on the floor by the window surrounded by objects that had been placed on their desk.

"I-I-wh-" Sherlock looked around himself with wide eyes, his breathing erratic and rapid.

"What are you do-"

"I-it was so dark a-and the- the table- it- I- that _infernal_ table and the-"

John knelt down by Sherlock and tried to hold him still, realizing what was happening.

"Shh, shh, I know, oh God I know. It's alright, you're fine, you're safe-"

"I can _see_ him," Sherlock said, seizing John by his shoulders and looking… absolutely terrified. John felt something inside him fall so, so far, and regardless of Sherlock's squirming and verbal protesting and swearing, he pulled him into his arms. Sherlock at first scrabbled to move away, but John held him tight.

"No, it's ok, Sherlock, it's _me_. Just breathe," he said as he stroked the lanky detective's back. After a few minutes of Sherlock stuttering on, John finally calmed him down, and they both sat there holding on to each other, John perched on one knee, Sherlock curled up with his knees pulled to his chest.

"I-I thought, I…I must've been dreaming," Sherlock finally said, after they had pulled away slightly and Sherlock could look at John's face. John nodded, curtly.

"Yes, I know."

"Is that- is-"

"Mm," John mumbled an affirmative, and Sherlock's eyes searched all around them.

"I'm," Sherlock bit his lip and closed his eyes for a second, then opened them to look into John's. "I'm sorry."

John shook his head and started pulling Sherlock up to stand.

"No, no," he kept holding on to Sherlock's shoulders. "_Never_."

Sherlock nodded almost imperceptibly and let John lead him back to his bedroom.

"Your shoulder-" John gestured to it and reached out hesitantly.

"Fine, it's-"

"Right, yes." Sherlock sat down on his bed and John pulled at some of the covers that had been dislodged. "Um, so."

"I'll, I'll be alright, I-"

"Good, yes. Sure?"

"Yes."

John stood by Sherlock's bed and clenched and unclenched a fist. "I, well, I'll just-"

"No," Sherlock said and then seemed to recoil a bit. "I mean, you can go-"

"I can stay, I-," John puffed out a short laugh, "I couldn't sleep anyway, it's okay." He sat down by Sherlock's knees and looked around the room for a second, licking his lips. "You, uh, are you thirsty?" John pointed to the glass of water on Sherlock's bedside table.

"No."

John nodded and clasped his hands in his lap. Sherlock shifted slightly where he was sitting, propped up against the headboard.

"When you, when you dream, is it-" Sherlock seemed to be searching for words. "Do you see details?"

John breathed in deeply.

"I see a lot of blurs of people I knew. And I hear, and…" John pressed his tongue against the back of his upper teeth. "Shouting." He paused and pursed his lips. "Crying."

"I could hear- could _feel_-"

"Oh, Sherlock," John rubbed his hand against his forehead and, not thinking, placed a hand on Sherlock's knee. Sherlock twitched before he looked away and fiddled with the corner of his bedsheet. John drew back, apologizing.

"You can." Sherlock said, the slightest tremor in his voice.

"Jesus, I-" John looked down at his hands and shook his head. Silence invaded the room and breathing was barely audible, controlled to the point of almost nonexistence under the oppressive discomfort surrounding the two men.

Then, breaking through the wordless mask that had been placed over their distressed faces, both men opened their mouths to speak and cut themselves off at the same time.

"Sorry, go on," John said, adjusting his position on the bed. Sherlock didn't move.

"Just go to sleep, I don't… I don't need-"

"It's not about need," John said before he realized he was saying it. He hung his head slightly and looked at a small spot on Sherlock's blanket, eyes wide. After another few painful moments of nothing, John made what he thought was a mistake, and opened his mouth. "I was wrong."

"About what?"

"I never said it."

Sherlock watched John carefully.

"I was wrong to call you a machine."

Sherlock worked his jaw slightly and then licked his lips. Finally, "you…did."

John looked at him questioningly.

"You implied it, at least."

Understanding dawned on John and he let out a heavy breath. "You were there."

"I apologize for-"

"You selfish bastard." John looked straight at Sherlock, meeting his terrifyingly honest and piercing eyes.

"Yes."

"Absolute fucking bastard."

"I know."

"No, you really- you _really_ don't-"

"You were always right about me."

"Oh?" John looked at him, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"I'm an idiot."

"Don't say things because you _think_ they'll help. You can't just-" John started to stand and Sherlock grabbed his wrist.

"_John_, I-" Sherlock wanted to stop him, to calm him. They were doing it all out of order. All out of order.

"Nightmares, Sherlock, fucking _nightmares_, and you have the gall to-"

"I couldn't have you die, it doesn't _work_ that way, it's not how things are supposed to be."

"Oh, and how are things supposed to be? I can't die, but you can faff off and leave me out of everything and-"

"God, John, we already did this. Please, just, understand."

"Underst- ahh, that's good, yeah," John laughed, balling his hand into a fist again.

"Come on, you must see."

"Sherlock, I did see. I have seen. I saw _twice_. I could never have been prepared to lose you once and I nearly had to do it aga-" John bit off the end of his sentence and steadied his breathing. Sherlock let go of his wrist, his gaze flickering all around John.

"I'm tired, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked away.

"Never thought I'd be tired."

"Well, you can't have the battlefield without the exhaustion, John." Sherlock spoke with venom.

"Oh, fuck you. You stupid asshole, you've always made the exhaustion go away. And you're impossible and arrogant and _God_, you just-"

Sherlock stayed quiet. John sighed and closed his eyes, standing by the bed, motionless.

"…Stay."

John opened his eyes and looked back at Sherlock. God, how could he look so small sometimes?

"I'll get a chair."

"Or…"

"Or?"

Sherlock scooted over and made space for John on his bed. John looked between Sherlock and the space and opened his mouth to say something, but then shrugged. Oh, why not? He carefully sat down on the edge of the bed and scooted back until he was also propped against the headboard. There were a few inches between himself and Sherlock. Sherlock smiled tightly at John, and John gave him an annoyed look. They sat in silence for an interminable amount of time.

_This_ was a whole new kind of battlefield.

John wanted so badly to just talk and talk, and yet it was also the last thing he wanted to do. So instead, he sat and thought about talking. He thought about it and thought about it and then looked over to Sherlock and-

the detective was asleep, head lolled forward. John looked up at the ceiling and cursed an unknown deity. He pulled the covers up over Sherlock more and turned to face away from him, carefully sliding down so he could rest his head on a pillow.

John awoke wondering when he had fallen asleep, and why his bedside table had switched places. Then he sat up and remembered. Looking to his left, he winced upon noticing that Sherlock was still asleep. Gingerly, he got out of bed and went to make tea and toast. Sherlock emerged from his room shortly after John sat down to eat, and they both smiled at each other, nodded, good morning, all of that, and then looked away with wide eyes at whatever task they were busy with. They then ate in silence, occasionally tapping at computer keys or flipping through a newspaper. In the afternoon, Lestrade came round to see they were all settled.

"How's the shoulder, Sherlock?"

"Fine, healing. Tedious."

A chuckle.

"Yeah, well, bloody body parts and their need to recover, huh?" Lestrade looked to John. "This git giving you any peace?"

John smiled fondly.

"When am I not taking care of this child?" He joked. Sherlock shot them both venomous looks and settled back to reading the paper, scrutinizing an article about a recent homicide.

"Did you make any headway with those case files I gave y-"

"Blindingly easy and dull, Lestrade. Really, you ought to have known better."

"I'll take that as a 'yes, Greg, I finished them all, thank you for tossing a few my way'," Lestrade said, smugly. John smiled down at his computer, unsuccessful at hiding it from Sherlock. "I'll leave you to it, then," Lestrade finished, making his way to the door before-

"It wasn't the sister," Sherlock said, still staring at his paper.

Lestrade sighed and turned back, getting out his notepad. Once Sherlock had finished correcting every mistake the Met had made on the case of the purportedly murdered dog-show host and consequent disappearance of prized dog, Sparkles, Lestrade finally bid adieu to the detective and doctor (one of which was shrugging off another easily solved case, the other nodding sympathetically over his tea to the detective inspector).

"I'll check your dressings, shall I?" John asked, not looking up at Sherlock. Sherlock grunted and John took that as a beleaguered 'yes'. John finished up his (second) cuppa and took Sherlock to the bathroom. He helped Sherlock out of his button-up and noted the fading of the bruises on his shoulders and clavicle. Carefully pulling off the gauze and inspecting the sutures, John could tell Sherlock was doing his best to remain still.

"So, did you sleep alright?"

"Yes. No more nightmares."

"Right. Good. That's good. Hopefully they won't happen again."

"They will."

John pursed his lips and dabbed a cotton swab dipped in antiseptic around the bullet wound.

"You know they will. They still happen to you."

"Yes, but I remember- mh, I-" John licked his lips, trying to steer away from where that line of thought was headed.

"I-I remember a little bit before it occurred. And then just… strange images and sounds. The-the desk was just-"

"I know."

"I didn't expect him to become violent like that."

"Oh, really? He seemed fairly violent to me."

"He- I was…not thinking. Drugs, they-they make me-"

"Yes," John cleared his throat. "Yes, I know."

"I'm sorry."

John frowned up at Sherlock.

"It's not your fault."

Sherlock just blinked at him and John nodded toward the shower. "Stick some plastic wrapping on your shoulder and you can take a shower."

Sherlock didn't reply, but simply stared at the shower somewhat blankly. He had (reluctantly) mostly been given sponge bathes at the hospital, so a full water-pressure shower was something of a comfort. The room seemed very small though. Air seemed small. He suddenly felt very constricted, and had to place his hand on the sink counter to steady himself. John noticed, but stayed still.

"What is it?"

"I don't dream."

John looked surprised for a moment before looking down and clearing his throat. "Yes, well."

Silence.

"It's not really a dream, is it?"

"No. No, it's not, Sherlock."

"I'll take a shower now."

"Right." John left the room and closed the door.

As John turned away from the door, he was met by Mrs. Hudson's small form leaning around the wall to the stairs.

"Oh! Sorry, dear, I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"No, not at all. Just was checking the stitches. I'm sure he'll enjoy his first real shower in weeks," John said, smiling. Mrs. Hudson brought her index finger to her lips.

"Oh, well, I," she teetered where she stood, slightly, and produced a small paper bag from behind her. "I got Sherlock some of those pies he likes so much. I thought maybe the daft man would eat _something_…" she looked down at the bag and up at John, moving forward.

"Lovely, no, that's, he'll appreciate it. I'm sure. Here, we'll just put those in the fridge," John took the bag from her and placed it in the, regrettably, near empty fridge. John winced as he pushed aside a bag of good-god-what-is-that-is-that-blood and promised himself he'd get the shopping in the morning. As he closed the fridge door he pointed to the kettle. "Would you like a cuppa?" Mrs. Hudson nodded and thanked him.

They sat by the kitchen table as the kettle boiled, silently shifting Sherlock's lab equipment around, Mrs. Hudson muttering about "oh, he really shouldn't keep such vile things in- is that acid?" while John grinned sheepishly. When the tea was finally ready, Mrs. Hudson leaned forward and looked at John sweetly, though somewhat sadly.

"So, how's he doing? Is he going to go back to work soon?"

"I expect so. He's already solving minor cases. He's pretty much back to his old self, really. He just has to manage not to tear apart that shoulder." Mrs. Hudson tsked, and John raised his eyebrows in agreement.

"Is he- you said 'pretty much'?"

John cleared his throat, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. "Yes, well. He's reasonably upset that he couldn't take care of- well. He's going to experience some flashbacks of whatever the concussion didn't wipe out, but I think he's more bothered by the outcome."

Mrs. Hudson looked down at her tea, sighing. "He'll be frustrated over it for a while, won't he?"

"I honestly don't really know. He's hard to predict with these things."

"No, he's perfectly _easy_ to predict. He's petulant and stubborn, and that funny old head isn't going to stop churning over everything."

John looked at Mrs. Hudson in a way that made her feel a bit sick. She was reminded of sitting to have tea with John not so long ago. It felt like ages, though.

"I don't know how to make him give up, sometimes," John admitted. He must have regretted it immediately, because he brought his head back slightly and took a long gulp of tea, staring at the table.

"He wouldn't be Sherlock if he gave up," Mrs. Hudson said, and John had an unpleasant urge to run fast and hard. Just as he brought himself out of that haze, Sherlock appeared in the doorway with pyjamas and his dressing gown on, hair still damp. "Oh, Sherlock, good to see you up and about. How're you feeling?" Mrs. Hudson patted the chair next to her, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her.

"You've brought pies," he stated, closing the distance between himself and the fridge instead of himself and the seat Mrs. Hudson was offering him.

John furrowed his brow and eyed Sherlock from the side, coughing obviously. Sherlock drew back from the fridge and looked at him quizzically, then glanced at Mrs. Hudson, a slight "oh" forming on his lips.

"Thank you, I'm feeling well," he said, smiling and plucking the bag from its perch on the top shelf.

"Oh, not at all, dear. I'm glad you're doing better. I thought the pies would be a nice treat." Sherlock nodded, taking one out and sitting down. John didn't need prompting, he got up and got a third cup of tea for Sherlock.

"We'll be needing to stuff you full of pies, Sherlock. You lost another bloody five pounds," John said, sternly.

Sherlock dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand, opening his mouth to say something, but John cut him off.

"Your body is just transport, I know, I know. Just let me have it this one time, yeah? You can't just keep losing weight. We'll force feed you, won't we, Mrs. Hudson?" John said with a calm, smug look at Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson smiled at the men and took a sip of tea, Sherlock rolling his eyes as he took a bite of the pie.

And so, they sat drinking their tea and eating pies, until they all ordered some Indian takeaway and built a fire in the fireplace, John and Sherlock smiling to each other as Mrs. Hudson told them all of the gossip Mrs. Turner had given her. "Oh, but I heard the married ones are looking to adopt," and, "did you know Mr. Warner just found out he has a son?", and, "can you _believe_ the police arresting that poor girl just because she had a few _herbs_," the last bit causing John to chuckle and Sherlock to raise the corner of his mouth. When Mrs. Hudson finally retired, John poured himself a small glass of scotch and carded his hand through his hair.

"God, we talked for a while. I was going to start a new blog post today. Best do that tomorrow. People will want to know you'll be working again soon. I'm sure we can expect Mycroft to come by and, well, lecture us about…" John trailed off when he saw Sherlock staring into the fire. "You alright?"

"Hm? What? Me? Yes. Fine. Thinking," Sherlock responded, quickly. John danced his fingers around the rim of his tumbler and swallowed.

"What about?" he asked, carefully.

"Saline solutions," Sherlock replied, slowly. John frowned off to the side and Sherlock continued, "for a case, obviously…" trailing off and clasping his hands under his chin.

"Ah. Cheers," John said as he gulped down half of his scotch.

John stared at the fire, wishing it would give him the same answers Sherlock seemed to be getting. The lick of the flames up the side of the bricks provided him at once with a sense of loss and of happiness. They had had so many dinners and late chats by fireside in the past, John felt it was a small step towards a return to normalcy. A step, however, burdened by the atmosphere of vulnerability the doctor and the detective both gave off. Love is a vicious motivator for both quickened recovery of a situation and hesitant healing, laden with fear of possible outcomes. The love of the life they had led so far was the simultaneous undoing and mending of the doctor. What secrets, what stories could the walls of 221B hold in the future?

John Watson needed the battlefield to wait for them to catch up. He stared into his glass and felt the warmth of the room folding in on him. Silence permeated through the crackle of the fire and drowsiness began to set in. Sherlock seemed very intent on staying motionless and quiet, so John decided to turn in soon.

Draining the last of his drink, he stood, inattentive of the quick flicker of Sherlock's eyes towards him.

"I'll uh, I think I'll head to bed. You- let me know if you need anything. From me." John stood awkwardly, waiting for a reply. Sherlock hummed shortly and John pursed his lips, turning and walking out to the stairs. Once he reached his room, he stripped off his jumper and button-up, replacing them with a light black tee. As his pyjama bottoms replaced his trousers, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. The bed took the weight of his tired body as he watched his double in the reflection, rubbing his face and feeling the lines etched deep in his skin. How old did one have to be to qualify for a silver fox? He carded a hand through his short, neatly trimmed, greying hair. He could no longer count the strands gone salty, only the ones peppered with the darker pigment, gone brown over the years.

This night, John fell asleep almost instantly, and dreamt of fires engulfing faces he could barely recognize. He could see so clearly the flames that whipped around, but the people around him seemed to be screaming from far away. He turned to face who he thought was a fellow soldier, ensconced in the Kandahar hospital at the dead of night, peaceful and cold as it was. But when he looked into the eyes of the man laying there, they were all kinds of blue and green and they pierced right through him, and he felt the gaze as it went straight through the bullet hole, out his body as he fell, and fell, and-

before he knew what had crashed, John reached out to catch it, though was unsuccessful in the endeavor, for the thing that was crashing had already fallen.

_ A hand would be outstretched to catch, but would fail, and the shattering would echo off the wall as feet hurriedly avoided tiny, dangerous glints of light, leftover by the wreckage. _

By the time John got to the kitchen, Sherlock was reaching for another pair of glasses to join the colorful shards stained with tea already on the floor. John didn't have time or attention to curse himself for not putting on a pair of slippers before he caused his feet anguish to catch the fallen detective in his arms as they landed and landed as John held and held.

And like so many other times John took the taller man's wrist in his hand and felt the pulse, felt the life beating far too fast in the man's chest and he couldn't decide whether to hold onto him enough to keep him from breathing or to release him as though he no longer would breathe without that action.

"No-no, no, now, none of that. Keep breathing, steady on, yes, I've got you, I've got you," John spoke as Sherlock fought his grasp. And then Sherlock turned his face to John and searched John's face frantically.

"I-I am fine, unhand me, John. I said-"

"Damn it, Sherlock-"

"I am capable!" Sherlock shouted, pulling away and heaving his body against the cupboard door, slamming his fist down. "Infuriating!"

John held his hands up to pacify, scooting back a foot to give room for air.

"Sherlock, Jesus, what-"

"I am a rational being!" Sherlock yelled at John, throwing him a venomous glare. John stayed still and breathed through his nose.

"Sherlock."

"I thrive off the constant state of logical conclusion drawn up with a distinct lack of emotional connection-"

"Sherlock."

"Oh, look, see, I can see it now. You're worried, oh, _so_ worried. You're calculating the number of cups I broke and my breathing pace and heart rate, right now, as we speak. You're now observing my pupil dilation and debating whether to phone an ambulance, even though you'd be perfectly competent at taking care of me and you know it. And now you think I'm being cruel when in fact you _know_ exactly what has happened, and you only asked because-"

"Sherlock," John said, raising his voice, but keeping steady.

Sherlock clamped his mouth shut and narrowed his eyes at John.

"And now you're wondering what to do with me. Can the doctor fix me? Hm?"

"That's not really how I'd put it."

"It's how I'm putting it."

"Just because I'm concerned for your-"

"The cups were not agreeing with me."

John drew his tongue over his lips and sighed, finally sitting down opposite Sherlock.

After what seemed to be an interminable silence, "how long?" Sherlock asked.

"It doesn't."

"What," Sherlock swallowed, grimacing, "do we do?"

John would later be surprised at himself for not even blinking at the pronoun.

"We carry on."

"I cannot-" Sherlock stumbled over his words, "I need the work to- _this_ cannot-"

"It won't. It gets better."

"Obviously. But this is, unusual."

"We're English. Everything is unusual and everything is fine."

Sherlock actually looked at him through fond eyes.

"It is usually more quiet."

"Yes, well, I'm not."

Sherlock smiled.

"Is there a way to prevent it from being so violent?"

"Avoid living?"

Sherlock looked guilty for a second and John immediately felt bad.

"No, Sherlock, that's not- it's not always like that."

"Fits of rage are unbecoming for me," Sherlock replied.

"They're unbecoming for everyone. But you will learn to cope."

"My mind cannot operate with unsolved pieces laying about."

"I know. So let's solve them."

"Clearly, that will take effort," Sherlock looked to the shards surrounding them. "You're bleeding," he added, a slight tremor of worry in his voice. John kept looking at him, didn't look at the blood.

"That'll be solved, as well. This is more important."

"You won't be able to make it go away."

"No, I won't."

"And yet you'll put up with me, like," Sherlock gestured around him, "_this_."

"Yes," John nodded, "yes, I will."

"I take your tolerance for granted, daily. I know this and I still do this. Why are you an anomaly in your willingness to continue?"

"Don't know," John said, mildly, watching Sherlock in the same way he had after shooting the cabbie on that first, glorious day.

"I am a danger."

"And here I am."

Sherlock bit his lip and seemed disbelieving.

_That_ would've been the thing to surprise John.

"Let's get you to bed, and I'll clean this in the morning, shall I?"

Sherlock looked at the floor at nothing in particular.

"Not tired."

"Don't care," John said, holding his hand out to Sherlock after standing up.

"You're still bleeding."

"And you're still on your lazy arse."

"Oh, fine." Sherlock grunted and took John's hand, allowing John to give him the proper leverage to stand. Sherlock ended up inches away from John, and they watched each other up-close in the intensity of the dark. They searched each other's faces like all the other times they had stood so close, and were still unable to draw any conclusions from the contact.

"Right, so…" John tentatively withdrew his hand from Sherlock's grasp, and Sherlock swallowed, stepping back slightly. "Room?" John jerked his head in the direction of Sherlock's bedroom.

Sherlock said nothing but let John lead him down the hall. Once inside, they both stood in the room, eyes pointedly not meeting.

"I should-" Sherlock gestured towards his wardrobe. John raised his eyebrows for a moment and then nodded, tongue flicking out over his lips once more, before he hesitated between his current spot and the door. Which was silly, wasn't it? John had practically seen the man completely starkers before. He can remember it clearly, the bedsheet, in the bloody palace, and-

_stop_, the rational half of John's brain implored.

Don't think about the laughter. Don't think about the smiles. Don't. He was going to simply turn around, when the pain in his feet finally made itself known, so he settled with moving to the bath to quickly bandage his carved feet. Star-shaped holes and limps molded from stress had made him more resilient than necessary.

"John."

John turned, and Sherlock stood before him in pyjama bottoms, his button-up still on, holding his grey tee.

"So, um, I suppose…" John looked to the tee, licking his lips. Sherlock bit his lower lip and looked down.

"I- I was able to change earlier, my- the wound hurts now," Sherlock indicated his shoulder, wincing.

"From the- yes," John said, stepping forward and carefully taking the sling off, holding Sherlock's arm, helping him dress.

Once that job was done, John held the shirt up in question, and Sherlock nodded to the floor. John rolled his eyes, tossing it down, then looked to the bed.

"Do, um." John wavered.

"I would. Like it."

John replied with one deep nod and pulled back the covers on both sides. They carefully crawled in, turning their backs to each other.

"Guess this'll be a nightly thing, then," John muttered, without any resentment in his tone. Sherlock was silent, frozen. After a few moments, John sensed his tension. "Hey, it's not- that's not what I meant," he said, turning over so he could face Sherlock.

"It's noisier," Sherlock said, quietly. "But blanker."

John swallowed hard, reaching a hand out and placing it on Sherlock's back.

"I know. It will get better."

He stroked, slowly, frowning at his own hand in confusion at what it was doing.

"I have never wanted to hurt you."

John stopped, and Sherlock's eyes widened as he stared at the wall.

"I know." John's voice was not as steady as he wished it would be.

"It is not… necessary. To me. To- feel," Sherlock said, at length, seemingly searching for words. John stroked once more and drew back slightly, causing Sherlock to, perhaps unwillingly, lean back slightly.

"Right, well-" John started pulling back, not wanting the conversation to keep going, the hurt rising like bile in his throat.

"-But it is nice," Sherlock finished.

John stilled, hand midway between himself and Sherlock. They stayed that way long enough for vases and cups to fall, for shards of glass to glimmer, for the world to burn.

"Please." Sherlock's voice broke through the silence of crashing, filled with such anxiety and-

John stared at his friend's back as his hand rubbed in circles and he stopped reaching out to catch the fallen objects. It was pointless at this time.

This time, Sherlock's hand fell as he rolled over, and it caught the hand withdrawing. Long, thing fingers met shorter, stubbier ones. Neither stronger nor more graceful. Simply different.

The air grew hot as breath was released between them. The unusual feeling of warmth made Sherlock think it unfair: why should these things matter so much? Why should they comfort? Divorced from emotions, once, now falling into a troublesome relationship with them. All because an army doctor insisted on proving he _cared_. It was vile and Sherlock held nothing but disdain for the situation. The weakness of his life now broken through his hard exterior, and he felt betrayed by the world once more. So many times. Why could he not suffer in peace?

But then, John blinked, his expression gone soft, and his hand loosed its grip on Sherlock's, following the path of veins down his arm and then up, up, up to his heart and no-no that was wrong, Sherlock had no heart- no, this was unfair, why would he not _stop_-

and John swallowed, and the skin of his neck drew up and down with his Adam's apple, and Sherlock was drowning, drowning, drowning in something he wanted so badly to continue hating. How could-

John licked his lips, tongue darting out to run across dry skin, the red in his eyes, his tired, tired, eyes, standing to show in contrast to the impossible whites, and Sherlock could actually feel the moment his heart stubbornly stopped beating. And started up again in time with his _real _heart.

John was breathing through his nose, and Sherlock's lips were slightly parted, because he feared if he closed his mouth he would forget how to breathe and suffocate under the stupid, stupid gaze of his-

_stop_

_stop_

too late.

Sherlock's hand trembled as it rested on John's cheek.

John's hand remained steady as his thumb painted an invisible line of himself on Sherlock's lower lip.

_Make me fumble_

_Make me fall_

_Make my heart stop and start_

_To tremble uncontrollably_

How sickeningly poetic, Sherlock thought, the heart and mind and-

John's _eyes_, and Sherlock wanted to get up and go but-

_Let my eyes see fear make desire_

_Keep those who long apart_

_Forbid the kiss_

_And leave us innocent_

_Of the things some do in the dark_

It was too dark, really, to see the space between the two men close. It was too dark, really, to see their eyelids drift down as they met each other for the first time, once more. It was too dark, really.

For everyone else.

_Make me remember_

_Make me forget_

_Make my mind unable_

_To force the body to do its will_

_Let it be right for belief and denial_

_To share a space in the heart and leave us only to imagine_

_About the things some do in the dark_

They were both subconsciously calculating Sherlock's heart rate, worried it could simply stop at any moment. More worried it wouldn't.

221B held many secrets. Secret thoughts, secret experiments, secret conversations about secret cases.

For now, it held a secret kiss.

John had already decided to stare at the ceiling, eyes wide, questioning his entire life, later. Sherlock had already decided to ignore John, later. They knew 221B would hold this secret until they both could look at each other without being unsure of what to say.

And so, they kissed.

And Sherlock let his fingers run through the fine, short hairs on John's scalp, feeling the grey and the brown and wondering when colors became so fascinating. And John brushed his thumb over Sherlock's cheekbone and, beneath the layers of his thoughts, cursed the ridiculous structure of the man he lov-

_what_.

Later.

The kiss would've seemed unremarkable to anyone else.

Alright, not _anyone_ else. Anyone who wasn't Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper, Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade. It would've seemed unremarkable to John Watson if he weren't the one engaging in it. And because the others (and thankfully no one else) was watching, the kiss was allowed to be absolutely, hideously perfect.

It seemed unjust to both John and Sherlock that they be given such a good introduction to the art. This would not end, here. This would continue and this would be a…

_what would it be?_

A problem?

No.

An issue?

No.

As their lips fit perfectly, alternating, _lower on upper, upper on lower, which way feels better- oh that one_-

and their tongues dared to glance at - _oh, that is surprisingly okay, quite stupidly good_-

they both knew it meant a _thing_ that would require discussion. It meant hearts minutely healed by the exhaustion of a head rested on a shoulder. It meant, damn it all, everyone was right.

That shouldn't matter, they thought.

Did it?

More tongues seemed to answer the question.

Oh, and now John's hand was fisted in Sherlock's shirt, and-

-the hole in Sherlock's shoulder hurt as he put pressure on it, and John realized it somewhat belatedly, but Sherlock was the last person to care.

Still, John moved over Sherlock's body to frame his face with his forearms as Sherlock's left arm found its way to the dip in John's back and John could swear his spine disconnected from his body because his body was both numb and tingling at the sensation. Sherlock was a brilliant contradiction, and it coursed through John's veins and poisoned his soul.

_What have you done to this Angel, Sherlock?_

And the poison rolled from Sherlock's eyes as he dove for the second time in his life and fell harder then he could've ever done on the pathetic revelations of needles.

And then Sherlock did forget how to breathe. So, John taught him again. And as Sherlock gulped air into his lungs and salt and saline prickled at his eyes and cheeks, John pulled him up and was sitting on his lap as he held the great- _good_ man, and-

"I-"

"Shh."

* * *

**Noooo, Nurse Mary isn't a hint at a fic I may or may not be writing now nooo of course not what are you imply-**  
**welp.**  
**We're almost at the end. Sorry this sucks. **


	14. Do you, do you want me?

**So I got a guest review that reminded me that people sort of actually care about this fic. So thank you for that. And I do care about it, I just have trouble writing, ever. Anyway there will probably be 2-3 parts to this chapter. But I have exams so I'm going to try to just update short parts over shorter amounts of time. This scene was torture to write and I'm not overly fond of it but hopefully I made no gross mistakes. Also sorry about the last chapter's formatting - I forgot that ff doesn't keep my page breaks unless I do special raw copy and pasting so it must've been confusing to jump from scene to scene.**

* * *

_The hurt that the heart forgets, the heart will always remember_

_The hold that the hand regrets, the heart remembers forever_

_I was put together wrong, still I was made for you_

_When our stitches come undone, we come together like glue, like glue_

_His hand on my back._

_A simple touch, replicated in a million ways, every day, for every person. The nerve endings receive the sensation and pass it through, a chemical current, through dendrites to soma to axon to synapse to dendrites._

_I can feel his heart beat in his _hand_._

_The circular sensation is different._

_What does it mean?_

_Affection, comfort, warmth and_

_friendship is too little and too much and love is simply absurd and _unfair_. And it's different from before. He used to do that but John does it better- well of _course_ he does it better. He does everything be-_

_no, _no_, that doesn't make sense_

_stop_

_stop_

_blank_

_blank but noisy_

_why is life so cruel_

_oh and now he has stopped. _

_That is surprisingly disconcerting. What must I do to-_

Oh_. His hand is so_

_why won't it stop_

_it's soft but rough and strong and_

_his hand is so _steady_, well of course it is. I'm a danger. I'm a danger._

_I'm a_

_oh he smells good. _

_No, that's ridiculous. Things don't smell _good_ or _bad _they just _smell_. _

_But he smells - no, no, wrong, _tastes_- like Irish breakfast tea and cinnamon and earl grey and green tea and_

_and that is just his _mouth_._

_Oh, his lips are chapped. He does tend to lick them too much with-_

_no, no, no, delete, delete, back_

_this is not relevant to- to_

_no, there isn't room in here for him. Not like this. I can't just-_

_he always says I'll be the death of him._

_How wrong he is._

_I can feel it, now. Every neuron firing as my brain utterly deteriorates. This is unpleasant. How is one expected to _think_ with someone else's tongue in their_

_no_

_I can't want this it's not_

_oh, God, I can feel his pulse quickening and that's for _me_. _

_Stupid._

Stupid.

_I cannot _breathe _oh my god my lungs feel-_

_I never meant you any harm_

_But your tears feel warm as they fall on my forearm_

_But close my eyes for a while_

_Force from the world a patient smile_

_How can you say that your truth is better than ours?_

_"Mycroft took him."_

_Sherlock was silent, burning a hole in the wall with his gaze._

_"He confessed to everything. He'll probably be locked up for life."_

_The wheels in Sherlock's brain were turning too soon._

_"I know you're probably cross, but-"_

_Sherlock turned his gaze to John and the cloudy grey-blue pinned John in place._

_"Love is such a boring conclusion."_

_John tipped his head up for a moment and swallowed._

_"This wasn't a good kind of love."_

_"Are any of them good?"_

_John licked his lips and they turned into a moue. "Not the ones you see."_

_Sherlock's eyes portrayed surprise for a moment, narrowing slightly in almost-pride at the sharpness of the remark. "And the ones _you_ see?" _

_John's lips parted slightly and he flexed his jaw, turning away to run his finger along the rim of the styrofoam tea, weak and pale, watered down to provide quantity instead of quality. Wasn't _that_ what love was, then? _

_"Ah."_

_John didn't look up. "Well, he's gone now, and you're safe."_

_"I will not be treated like a-'"_

_"Well then damn well go off and look for trouble," John spat._

_"Come along, then." Sherlock tilted his head down and an omniscient look pased over his features. _

_"Get some rest." John spoke flatly as he stood and left, dumping the tea out in the bin. Sherlock easily stifled the urge to reach out, not wanting to feel the same bile he had felt all that time ago in the graveyard. _

_They always come back._

John awoke knowing when he had fallen asleep, and why his bedside table had switched places. And when he sat up, he was not surprised, but comforted by the presence of his flatmate, covered by the thin sheet, curled up tighter than should be possible. Creeping out of the room so as not to disturb Sherlock, John padded into the kitchen, mindful of the broken glass, and filled the kettle. As he flicked it on, he felt the absence in his fist. Clenching and unclenching it, the ghost of fabric of Sherlock's tee slipped through his fingers, and he had to grip the edge of the counter to catch his breath.

The dip of the mattress and the clasping of Sherlock's hands on John's arms, the choked sobs and John's hands curling around Sherlock's skull, grounding him.

The kettle whistled at him and he picked up a cup and put it back down, found the teabags and stared at them. He stared at them and the only thought in his head was, _well I, am_.

The kettle clicked itself off and the water was cooling down as John stared into the tea cupboard. The cup and teabags were abandoned, and the door closed so softly it almost had never been opened by the time John was flagging down a cab, pulling his jacket on.

"Ah."

John didn't turn around, he stared straight ahead, hands clasped in his lap, legs crossed.

"You've beaten me." Mycroft's smooth tone didn't unsettle John any more than it ever had. The umbrella was stood against the opposite chair, and the briefcase placed slowly on the table. The unsettling part was the familiarity.

"Spare you the trip," John said, eyes tracing Mycroft's movement as he settled himself in the chair. He looked less uncomfortable this time. That didn't seem to ease the tug John felt in the cavity of his chest.

"I do appreciate it." Mycroft smiled congenially. His hands ended up on either armrest, legs crossed, his foot painting small circles in the air. "As happy as I am to see you, John, do-"

"I need his file."

Mycroft swallowed.

"And how is my brother?"

John blinked at him and smiled tightly.

"I know you can't tell me everything."

Mycroft adjusted his tie. Smoothing over the plane of fabric, he looked down at his hands and inhaled sharply.

"I do not think it wise to-"

"You've not thought many things wise and you still did them."

Mycroft met his eyes and ran his tongue along his inner cheek.

"And how," he began, slowly, "is my brother?"

John looked away a moment too long. Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him. John knew the bastard would record every breath he took.

"He is struggling?"

"Nothing we can't handle."

"Your efforts to protect him from me are valiant, John, however unnecessary."

"Then what is necessary?" John uncrossed his legs and placed his hands firmly on either knee, sitting forward slightly.

"Take care of him. Stay with him-"

"Do you know how many times I've heard that come out of your mouth? Because he wouldn't listen to you."

"And I only say it because it is obvious."

"Mm. I will always stay with Sherlock, because big brother can't help?"

"No."

John's jaw tensed as he watched Mycroft smile smugly.

"Because you will always stay with him."

"Right. Please don't change the subject, Mycroft, it isn't endearing."

"Have we already begun our own rivalry?" Mycroft teased.

"You think it a massive joke, don't you? Let's all just treat Sherlock like a child. Sometimes children do know what they need."

"So, he sent you?"

John pursed his lips.

"Ah. You came because you think it'll help him. He doesn't even know what will-"

"So help me God, I don't ask much of you, Mycroft."

"No, but Sherlock does."

"Mm," John nodded, tongue passing over his lips before he brought a finger to them and narrowed his eyes. "You've let your- rivalry? Feud? Get in the way of…" John splayed his hands out and shrugged his shoulders. "Everything."

"I've done my best to protect-"

"No, no you haven't. Now stop pretending you-"

"Shall we address the shift in your relationship to my brother, then? If we're going to talk about personal situations."

John visibly inhaled before he caught himself and looked off to the side again.

"You wound me in your underestimation of my observational abilities," Mycroft said with a smile.

"I never said I underestimate them."

"You came here, after what? Finally deducing my brother's heart-"

"Right." John stood and made for the door.

"You don't have to act like a schoolboy to get your way, John."

"Oh, and what is it you're doing, then?" John doubled back.

"Inquiring about the health of my brother." Mycroft feigned innocence.

"He's well."

Mycroft raised his brow.

"He's…"

"Struggling through a surprisingly traumatic event by having you join him in bed."

John closed his eyes and nodded. "I'll be going, then, and you can take care to withhold any further observations and opinions you may have on our life," he said after a few moments.

"I am merely trying to aid you in the development of this… relationship."

John barked out a laugh.

"Happy announcements, right? Alright, then. I'll give you this. Either you will give me Moran's file in the next five minutes and I will go home to do _your job_, and take care of Sherlock, or I will sit here in silence until you tell me everything you know, or physically force me out."

Mycroft's pleasantly condescending face dissolved into solemnity. One long minute passed before he inhaled slowly and swallowed, nodding to the chair. John replaced himself in the seat and clenched his jaw as he kept his gaze locked on Mycroft.

"I trust you told him the very least of the situation."

John nodded tightly, his lips a thin line. Mycroft rubbed the pads of his index finger and thumb together while considering whether or not to lie.

"The majority of what…_further interrogation_-" Mycroft began, his mouth carefully forming the words to indicate the true underlying meaning, "-supplied us with revolved around Sebastian Moran describing how long he had watched Sherlock. How long he had plotted to eliminate him. Of course, the length of time only drove him further towards insanity. His motives were as you no doubt also extracted from him: he wanted revenge against Sherlock for the death of his boss, Jim Moriarty." Mycroft placed a hand on his knee, keeping it still, leveling his gaze with John's. John tilted his head up minutely, the tendons in his neck stretching. "There was a factor we had not fully considered, of course."

John blinked slowly, silent indication of his power over Mycroft.

"Moran disliked Sherlock ever since his boss fixated on him. And he discovered as many weaknesses as he could. Moriarty may have been the mastermind behind his own plan for Sherlock's demise, but Moran was certainly not just there to put a bullet through someone's brain. Of course, his abilities deteriorated as he- after Moriarty."

"I told Sherlock that Moran cared about Moriarty. There was a certain kind of love and loyalty there. What exactly are we really talking about?"

Mycroft licked his lips.

"Imagine Sherlock in a relationship."

John frowned. "What's that got to do with-"

"Jim Moriarty was possessive, manipulative, and abusive. His relationship with Moran was what an ordinary individual would call… more of an _understanding_."

"I'm still not seeing how this relates to Sherlock."

"Can you imagine my brother _not_ being possessive and compulsive, if he had a lover, or otherwise?"

"I'm sorry, are you comparing your brother to- no. No- you." John breathed out a disbelieving laugh and paused. "Mm. You are a fantastic bastard, Mycroft. But likening him to Moriarty? Please."

"I am not _likening _him to Moriarty. I am simply implying that you must apply whatever notions you have about what Sherlock would do in a relationship to Moriarty, and amplify the negative effects. Sherlock, to my knowledge, has never understood love or being close to someone. You are the first person to have ever broken that barrier."

John gave Mycroft a weakly irritated look and cleared his throat. "Well. Mycroft, thank you for your input on that subject. I'll let Sherlock tell me what he thinks, shall I?"

Mycroft hummed lightly and quirked a half-smile, eyes narrowing. "So, you do intend to have a discussion?"

"Didn't say that."

"Are you intending, then, to tell him information about Moran to settle his mind so you may move forward?"

"I could be wrong, but I think that's none of your business," John spoke with a familiar smile. Mycroft's smile turned into a vaguely distressed look, as he remembered their first meeting.

"Yes," Mycroft said, after a few moments. He tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair and breathed in sharply. "So, will that be all?"

John snorted and raised his eyebrows. "Think that's the first time you've ever asked me if we're finished."

"There's a first time for everything, John."

John studied Mycroft for a minute until he looked down and sighed. "Well, yes, that will be all. Once you retrieve the file."

Mycroft looked away and rubbed his chin before looking back to John and speaking. "That was not the agreement, John."

"Well you haven't given much all the information I'm sure is available."

"It would not do to show him all of it."

"Do you think I'm stupid enough to show him something that could trigger a harmful memory? I _am _a doctor. Everyone seems to forget."

"Of course not. However, he may not like all of the answers we provide him."

John looked at Mycroft patiently.

After yet another long pause, Mycroft spoke, quietly. "_You_ may not like all of the answers I provide."

"If you're going to tell me Moran is dead, I don't particularly-"

"As I said. Moran gathered information about Sherlock in order to find weaknesses," Mycroft interrupted, raising his voice slightly.

"About his past."

"Yes. And- about you. He, well. He thought you two were rather similar."

John swallowed thickly, remembering.

"In the end, his motives were rather… extraordinarily ordinary. Not ones which would interest Sherlock. But I'm sure you've both figured that out, by now."

"So what _did_ you do with him?"

"Locked up."

"That's it?"

"I'm not saying we didn't do whatever was necessary to extract information."

John nodded. "So… I tell Sherlock that Moran's motives were jealousy and revenge, and chalk it up to a boring ole' 6, throwing in a cup of scandalizing personal information? There's really nothing else you can give me?"

Mycroft stared into John's eyes for a few moments before looking down at his own hands. "Fun."

"Sorry?"

"He thought it fun."

John blinked at Mycroft.

"He and Moriarty did it all because it… because _they_ were bored," Mycroft said ruefully. "Subtract the only friend you have - in this case, Moriarty - and all that's left is the killing."

"Makes them sound human," John muttered.

"Oh, I can assure you. They were very human." Mycroft raised his brow while staring at the floor. "Just not the good kind. And they were psychopaths. Moran still is. Not in the way- well," Mycroft looked back up at John. "_Their_ psychopathy was clearly diagnosed," he finished, sadness in his tone.

John nodded and licked his lips until he processed what Mycroft had said. Frowning, he spoke. "That sounds… leading."

Mycroft weakly smiled. "Mm. Well. Tell Sherlock-"

"Mycroft."

"You will-"

"Mycroft," John said sternly.

Mycroft pursed his lips and gave John an inquisitive look.

"What are you implying?"

"I am…" Mycroft began, and sighed. "My brother is many things." He rubbed his fingers together again. "Rude, arrogant, aloof, unpredictable, manipulative, and controlling. But he is not insane."

John regarded Mycroft. Licking his lips, he again nodded. "Yeah." He inclined his head. "Yes, I know."

"Do not let him believe what Moran thought," Mycroft said, a slightly desperate look in his eyes.

John watched him carefully and closed his eyes in agreement. "I don't."

Mycroft did not meet his eyes again.


End file.
